The 

-HOME  BGOK 

of  VERSE  for 

YOUNG  FOLKS 

Se/ecfed and arrange*, 
BURTON  EGBERT  STEVENSON 

Decorations 
WILLY  POGANY 

V-  .  .  -«  :JR^J*".r 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY   HOLT  anc/  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1915,  by  H«nry  Holt  ^nd  pompany.,  »  ,    •»  • 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE 

For  permission  to  use  the  copyrighted  material  included  in  this  volume, 

the  compiler  is  indebted  to  the  following  authors  and  publishers,  whose 

courtesy  is  here  gratefully  acknowledged: 

D.  Appleton  &  Company:  The  poems  by  William  Cullen  Bryant  and 
Henry  Newbolt. 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company:  The  poems  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
from  the  Biographical  Edition  of  his  complete  works,  copyright  1913. 

The  Century  Company:  The  poems  by  Richard  Watson  Gilder  and 
William  Tuckey  Meredith. 

Dana,  Estes  &  Company:  The  poems  by  Laura  E.  Richards. 

Dodd,  Mead  &  Company:  The  poem  by  Austin  Dobson. 

(jeorge  H.  Doran  Company:  The  poem  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  "Trees,"  from 
"Trees  and  Other  Poems." 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company:  The  poems  by  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich, 
Abbie  Farwell  Brown,  Phoebe  Gary,  John  Vance  Cheney,  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  James  Thomas  Fields,  Richard  Watson  Gilder, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Lucy  Larcom,  Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow, James  Russell  Lowell,  Nora  Perry,  Edward  Rowland  Sill, 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  Bayard  Taylor, 
Celia  Thaxter,  Henry  David  Thoreau,  John  Townsend  Trowbridge, 
Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

John  Lane  Company:  The  poems  by  Henry  Newbolt  and  Francis 
Thompson. 

Little,  Brown  &  Company:  The  poems  by  Susan  Coolidge,  Emily  Dickin- 
son, and  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepherd  Company:  The  poems  by  Emilie  Poulsson, 
"The  Breakfast  Song,"  "Baby's  Breakfast,"  "Bed-time  Song," 
and  "The  Lovable  Child,"  from  "Child  Stories  and  Rhymes." 

The  Page  Company:  The  poems  by  Bliss  Carman  and  Charles  G.  D. 
Roberts. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons:  The  poems  by  Norman  Gale  and  Burges  Johnson. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons:  The  poems  by  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  Eugene 
Field,  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland,  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch,  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  and  Henry  Van  Dyke. 

Small,  Maynard  &  Company:  The  poems  by  Richard  Hovey,  John  B. 
Tabb,  and  Walt  Whitman. 

F.  A.  Stokes  Company:  The  poems  by  Gelett  Burgess  and  Alfred  Noyes. 

Whitaker  &  Ray-Wiggin  Company:  The  poem  by  Joaquin  Miller. 

Express  personal  permission  has  been  received  by  the  compiler  from 
the  following  authors  for  the  use  of  such  of  their  poems  as  appear  in 
this  collection,  all  rights  to  which  are  reserved  by  them: 
Henry  Abbey,  Henry  Holcomb  Bennett,  Abbie  Farwell  Brown,  Gelett 
Burgess,  Charles  E.-  Carryl,  W.  H.  Carruth,  John  Vance  Cheney, 
G.  K.  Chesterton,  Margaret  Deland,  Austin  Dobson,  Arthur  Conan 
Doyle,  Sam  Walter  Foss,  Hamlin  Garland,  Helena  de  Kay  Gilder 
(for  Richard  Watson  Gilder),   Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson,  Joyce 
Kilmer,  Robert  Loveman,  Henry  Newbolt,  Alfred  Noyes,  Emilie 
Poulsson,  Laura  E.  Richards,  Margaret  Sangster,  Edmund  Hamil- 
ton  Sears,   William    Force    Stead,   Laura   Stedman    (for    Edmund 
Clarence  Stedman),  John  Townsend  Trowbridge,  Henry  Van  Dyke, 
Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward. 


To 

ELIZABETH,  LIZZIE, 
BETSY,  AND  BESS 


THE  ARGUMENT  OF  THIS  BOOK 

I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers, 
Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July  flowers; 

I  sing*  of  dews,  of  rains,  and,  piece  by  piece, 
Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice,  and  ambergris. 
I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting;  and  I  write 
How  roses  first  came  red,  and  lilies  white; 
I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 
The  court  of  Mob,  and  of  the  Fairy  King. 

Robert  Hcrrick 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Argument  of  this  Book Robert  Herrick viii 

IN  THE  NURSERY 

Baby-land George  Cooper 2 

Mother  Goose's  Melodies Unknown 3 

"  I  Had  a  Little  Husband" Unknown 8 

Jack  and  Jill Unknown 9 

The  Queen  of  Hearts Unknown 9 

"  Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence" Unknown 9 

Simple  Simon Unknown 10 

Good  King  Arthur Unknown 1 1 

"A  Farmer  Went  Trotting" Unknown II 

"Johnny  Shall  have  a  New  Bonnet"  .  .  Unknown 12 

Robin  Redbreast Unknown 12 

"I  Had  a  Little  Doggy" Unknown 13 

The  Turtle-doves'  Nest Unknown 13 

Little  Bo-Peep Unknown 14 

Mary's  Lamb Unknown 14 

The  Star Jane  Taylor 15 

"Moon,  so  Round  and  Yellow" Matthias  Barr 16 

The  Cow Ann  Taylor 16 

The  Lamb William  Blake 17 

The    City    Mouse    and    the    Garden 

Mouse Christina  Rossctti 17 

The  Clocking  Hen Unknown 18 

The  House  that  Jack  Built Unknown 19 

Old  Mother  Hubbard Unknown 21 

The  Death  and  Burial  of  Cock  Robin  Unknown 23 

Infant  Joy William  Blake 25 

"Only  a  Baby  Small" Matthias  Barr 25 

Strange  Lands Laurence  Alma-Tadema  ....  26 

Baby George  Macdonald. 26 

Bartholomew Norman  Gale 27 

The  Breakfast  Song Emilie  Poulsson 28 

Baby's  Breakfast Emilie  Poulsson 28 

Baby  at  Play Unknown 29 

The  Difference Laura  E.  Richards 31 

The  Five  Little  Fairies Maud  Burnham 31 

Foot  Soldiers John  Banister  Tabb 32 

One  and  One Mary  Mapes  Dodge 32 

Tom  Thumb's  Alphabet Unknown 33 

Days  of  the  Month Unknown 34 

The  Garden  Year Sara  Coleridge 34 

Riddles Unknown 35 

Old  Superstitions Unknown 37 

Weather  Wisdom Unknown 38 

ix 


x  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Bedtime Francis  Robert  St.  Clair  Er- 

skine 39 

My  Bed  is  a  Boat Robert  Louis  Stevenson 40 

Escape  at  Bedtime Robert  Louis  Stevenson 40 

Minnie  and  Winnie Alfred  Tennyson 41 

"What  Does  Little  Birdie  Say" Alfred  Tennyson 41 

Hush-a-Byes Unknown 42 

Trot,  Trot Mary  F.  Butts 42 

Bed-time  Song Emilie  Poulsson 43 

Good-Night Jane  Taylor 44 

Cradle  Song William  Blake 45 

Lullaby Alfred  Tennyson 45 

Holy  Innocents Christina  Rossetti 46 

When  the  Sleepy  Man  Comes Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 46 

Willie  Winkie William  Miller 47 

Auld  Daddy  Darkness James  Ferguson 48 

The  Sandman Margaret  Thomson  Janvier .  .  49 

The  Sugar-Plum  Tree Eugene  Field 50 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod Eugene  Field 51 

THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

Happy  Thought Robert  Louis  Stevenson 54 

Rules  of  Behavior Unknown 55 

Little  Fred Unknown 56. 

Politeness Elizabeth  Turner 56 

Rebecca's  After-thought Elizabeth  Turner 57 

Kindness  to  Animals Unknown 57 

A  Rule  for  Birds'  Nesters Unknown 58 

"  Sing  on,  Blithe  Bird  " William  Motherwcll 58 

"I  Like  Little  Pussy" Jane  Taylor 59 

The  Little  Gentleman Unknown 60 

Whole  Duty  of  Children Robert  Louis  Stevenson 60 

The  Crust  of  Bread Unknown 61 

The  Plum-Cake Ann  Taylor 61 

The  Story  of  Augustus,  Who  Would 

not  Have  any  Soup Ileinrich  Hoffman 62 

"  How  Doth  the  Little  Busy  Bee"  ....  Isaac  Watts 63 

The  Ant  and  the  Cricket Unknown 64 

The  Sluggard Isaac  IV alts 65 

The  Butterfly Adelaide  O'Kecfe 65 

The  Butterfly  and  the  Bee William  Lisle  Bowles 66 

The  Story  of  Little  Suck-a-Thumb  .  .  Ileinrich  Hoffman 66 

Dirty  Jim Jane  Taylor 67 

The  Pin Ann  Taylor 68 

Jane  and  Kli/:i Ann  Taylor 69 

Meddlesome  Matty Inn  Taylor 70 

Think  before  You  "Art Mary  Elliott 72 

The  Boy  and  tin-  Wolf John  llonkham  Frcre 73 

Contented  John Junr  T  74 

Good  and  Bad  Children A'^w  <: 75 

The  Lovable  Child /•>::/.  76 

"There  was  a  Little  Girl" Unknown 76 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

A  Nursery  Song Laura  E.  Richards 77 

Anger Charles  and  Mary  Lamb ....  78 

My  Lady  Wind Unknown 78 

The  Best  Firm Walter  G.  Doty 79 

A  Baker's  Duzzen  uv  Wize  Sawz Edward  Rowland  Sill 79 

"Jog  on,  Jog  on" William  Shakespeare 80 

The  Tumble Ann  Taylor 80 

Little  Things Julia  Fletcher  Carney 80 

A  Ternarie  of  Littles Robert  Herrick 81 

The  Violet Jane  Taylor 82 

Deeds  of  Kindness Unknown 82 

The  Lion  and  the  Mouse Jeffreys  Taylor 83 

Buttercups  and  Daisies Mary  Howitt 85 

Some  Murmur  when  Their  Sky  is  Clear  Richard  Chevenix  Trench  ...  86 

Duty Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 86 

To  a  Child William  Wordsworth 87 

Written  in  a  Little  Lady's  Little  Al- 
bum   Frederick  William  Faber ....  87 

-  A  Farewell Charles  Kingsley 87 

RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

Reeds  of  Innocence William  Blake 90 

Foreign  Lands Robert  Louis  Stevenson 91 

The  Gardener Robert  Louis  Stevenson 91 

My  Shadow Robert  Louis  Stevenson 92 

The  Land  of  Counterpane Robert  Louis  Stevenson 93 

The  Peddler's  Caravan William  Brighty  Rands 94 

Mr.  Coggs Edward  Verrall  Lucas 94 

Little  Raindrops Mrs.  Hawkshaw 95 

Mr.  Nobody Unknown 96 

A  Mortifying  Mistake Anna  Maria  Pratt 97 

Wishing William  Allingham 98 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly Mary  Howitt 99 

Prince  Tatters Laura  E.  Richards 101 

Seein'  Things Eugene  Field 101 

The  Raggedy  Man James  Whitcomb  Riley 103 

The  Man  in  the  Moon James  Whitcomb  Riley 104 

Our  Hired  Girl James  Whitcomb  Riley 106 

Little  Orphant  Annie James  Whitcomb  Riley 108 

Extremes James  Whitcomb  Riley 109 

A  Boy's  Mother James  Whitcomb  Riley 1 10 

My  Sore  Thumb Surges  Johnson 1 1 1 

Little  Gustava Celia  Thaxter ill 

Letty's  Globe Charles  Tennyson  Turner .  .  .  113 

In  the  Garden Ernest  Crosby 113 

Under  my  Window Thomas  Westwood 114 

Nurse's  Song William  Blake 115 

The  Barefoot  Boy John  Greenleaf  Whittier ....  115 

The  Little  Black'Boy William  Blake 118 

The  Blind  Boy " Colley  Gibber 119 

The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan William  Wordsworth 120 

The  Children's  Hour Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  121 


xii  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

JUST  NONSENSE 

PAGE 

My  Recollectest  Thoughts Charles  Edward  Carryl 124 

Mr.  Finney's  Turnip Unknown 125 

There  was  a  Monkey Unknown 1 25 

The  Three  Jovial  Welshmen Unknown 126 

The  Jumblies Edward  Lear 128 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat Edward  Lear 130 

The  Pobble  Who  Has  no  Toes Edward  Lear 131 

The  Table  and  the  Chair Edward  Lear 132 

The  Whiting  and  the  Snail Lewis  Carroll 134 

The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter Lewis  Carroll 135 

"He  Thought  He  Saw" Lewis  Carroll Ij8 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  Oliver  Goldsmith 139 

Old  Grimes Albert  Gorton  Greene 140 

A  Tragic  Story William    Makepeace    Thack- 
eray    142 

Little    Billee William   Makepeace    Thack- 
eray    143 

Robinson  Crusoe Charles  Edward  Carryl 144 

The  Duel Eugene  Field 146 

In  Foreign  Parts Laura  E.  Richards 147 

"The   Owl,    and    the    Eel,    and    the 

Warming-Pan" Laura  E.  Richards 148 

I'm  Glad Unknown 148 

If Unknown 148 

Child's  Natural  History Oliver  Herford 149 

The  Frog II Hair e  Belloc 149 

The  Python Hilaire  Belloc 150 

The  Yak II  Hair  e  Belloc 150 

Sage  Counsel Arthur  Quiller-Couch 151 

The  Fastidious  Serpent Henry  Johnstone 152 

The  Plaint  of  the  Camel Charles  Edward  Carryl 153 

The  Purple  Cow Gelett  Burgess 154 

FAIRYLAND 

The  Fairy  Book Abbie  Farwell  Brown 156 

The  Fairies William  Allingham 157 

Fairy  Songs William  Shakespeare 159 

The  Fairy  Thrall Mary  C.  G.  Byron 159 

Queen  Mab Thomas  Hood 160 

The  Elf  and  the  Dormouse Oliver  Herford 162 

The  Little  Elf John  Kendrick  Bangs 162 

The  Visitor 1*.  R.  Chalmers 163 

The  Fairies'  Shopping Margaret  Dcland 164 

Alice  Brand Walter  Scott 1 66 

The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low Mary  If  wilt 170 

A  Son-  of  Sherwood llfred  Noyes 173 

The  Fairy  Book Xurman  Calf 174 

The  Fairy  Folk Robert  Bird 175 

"Oh!  Where  do  Fairies   Hid,    Their 

Heads" Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 176 

The  Last  Voyage  of  the  Fairies W.  If.  Davenport  Adams 177 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

Fairy  Song Felicia  Hemans 179 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies Richard  Corbet 180 

THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

A  Christmas  Carol Gilbert  Keith  Chesterton 182 

Carol William  Canton 183 

A  Christmas  Carol Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 183 

Christmas  Carol Unknown 184 

A  Carol Unknown 185 

Christmas  Carols Edmund  Hamilton  Sears  .  .  .  186 

"While    Shepherds    Watched    Their 

Flocks  by  Night" Nahum  Tate 187 

"While  Shepherds  Watched" Margaret  Deland 188 

"  Before  the  Paling  of  the  Stars"  .  .  .  .Christina  Rossetti 189 

"God  Rest  You,  Merry  Gemlemen".  Unknown 190 

The  Three  Kings Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  192 

The  Adoration  of  the  Wise  Men Cecil  Frances  Alexander.  .  .  .  194 

Lullaby  in  Bethlehem //.//.  Bashford 195 

A  Child's  Prayer Francis  Thompson 196 

Christmas  Bells Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  197 

Jest  'Fore  Christmas Eugene  Field 193 

The  Christmas  Tree  in  the  Nursery.  .Richard  Watson  Gilder 200 

Santa  Claus Unknown .  .  . 201 

Kriss  Kringle Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 202 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas Clement  Clarke  Moore 203 

THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

The  Wonderful  World William  Brighty  Rands 206 

The  \Vorld's  Music Gabriel  Setoun 207 

The  Gladness  of  Nature William  Cullen  Bryant 208 

Friends Abbie  Farwell  Brown 209 

Playgrounds Laurence  Alma-Tadema ....  209 

The  Brook's  Song Alfred  Tennyson 210 

A  Boy's  Song James  Hogg 212 

Going  Down  Hill  on  a  Bicycle Henry  Charles  Seeching  ....  212 

Song Robert  Browning 213 

The  Coming  of  Spring Nora  Perry 214 

Early  Spring Alfred  Tennyson 215 

Robin's  Come William  Warner  Caldwell.  .  .  217 

Written  in  March William  Wordsworth 218 

Song William  Watson 218 

Home  Thoughts,  From  Abroad Robert  Browning 219 

Sweet  Wild  April William  Force  Stead 220 

April  Rain Robert  Loveman 221 

Baby  Seed  Song Edith  Nesbit 222 

Song:  on  May  Morning John  Milton 222 

Midsummer John  Townsend  Trowbridge  .  223 

June James  Russell  Lowell 224 

To  Autumn John  Keats 226 

October's  Bright  Blue  Weather Helen  Hunt  Jackson 227 

October's  Party George  Cooper 228 


xiv  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


How  the  Leaves  Came  Down Susan  Coolidge 229 

The  Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves William  Wordsworth 230 

Robin  Redbreast William  Allingham 23 1 

The  Frost Hannah  Flagg  Gould 232 

Jacjc  Frost Gabriel  Setoun 234 

When  the  Frost  is  on  the  Punkin.  .  .  .James  Whitcomb  Riley 235 

Snow-Flakes Mary  Mapes  Dodge 236 

—   Dirge  for  the  Year Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 237 

"It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm  and 

Free" William  Wordsworth 238 

Hymn  to  the  Night Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  238 

~  To  Night Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 239 

Night William  Blake 240 

The  Wind  and  the  Moon George  Macdonald 242 

The  Piper  on  the  Hill Dora  Sigerson  Shorter 244 

The  Wind's  Song Gabriel  Setoun 246 

"Who  Has  Seen  the  Wind" Christina  Rpssetti 247 

The  Wind Robert  Louis  Stevenson 247 

Green  Things  Growing Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik  248 

A  Chanted  Calendar Sydney  Dobell 249 

Buttercups Wilfrid  Thorley 250 

To  Daffodils Robert  Herrick 250 

To  the  Daisy William  Wordsworth 25 1 

Little  Dandelion Helen  Barron  Bostwick 253 

\To  the  Dandelion James  Russell  Lowell 254 

The  Ivy  Green Charles  Dickens 256 

Little  White  Lily George  Macdonald 257 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass Sarah  Roberts  Boyle 258 

The  Grass Emily  Dickinson 259 

"When  in  the  Woods  {  Wander  all 

Alone" Edward  Hovell-Thurlow  ....  260 

Trees Joyce  Kilmer 260 

The  Tree Bjornstjerne  Bjdrnson 261 

Plant  a  Tree Lucy  Larcom 26 1 

"What  do  we  Plant" Henry  Abbey 263 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree William  Cullen  Bryant 263 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare William  Cowper 266 

Obituary Thomas  William  Parsons.  .  .  267 

The  Tiger William  Blake 268 

The  Snail William  Cowper 269 

The  Humble-Bee .  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 270 

To  an  Insect Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 272 

The  Cricket William  Cowper 274 

Grasshopper  Green .  ( 'nhno:cn 275 

The  Grasshopper Abraham  Cowley 275 

The  Trail  of  the  Bird //'.  J.  Courthope 277 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  .  .  .  278 

The  Building  of  the  Nest Margaret  Songster 278 

Bob  White -»pfr 279 

Robert  of  Lincoln H'il.'iam  Cullrn  Bryant 279 

The  O'Lincon  Family .  .  .                     .  Wilson  Flagg 282 

The  Jackdaw William  Cowper 283 

Song:  The  Owl Alfred  Tennyson 284 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xv 

PAGE 

Robin  Redbreast George  Washington  Doane  .  .  285 

The  Sandpiper Celia  Thaxter 285 

To  a  Skylark William  Wordsworth 286 

The  Skylark James  Hogg 287 

To  a  Skylark Percy  By  f she  Shelley 288' 

The  Throstle Alfred  Tennyson 291 

The  Brown  Thrush Lucy  Larcom 292 

Chanticleer Katherine  Tynan 293 

"A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea"  .  .Allan  Cunningham 294 

The  Sea .m Bryan  Waller  Procter 295 

Homeward  Bound William  Allingham 296 

The  Sea  Gipsy Richard  Hovey 297 

Sea  Fever John  Masefield 298 

The  Vagabond Robert  Louis  Stevenson 298 

The  Joys  of  the  Road Bliss  Carman 299 

STORIES  IN  RHYME 

The  Land  of  Story-Books Robert  Louis  Stevenson 304 

Paul  Revere's  Ride Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  305 

Sheridan's  Ride Thomas  Buchanan  Read .  .  .  .  309 

Barbara  Frietchie John  Greenleaf  Whittier  ....  311 

Herve  Riel Robert  Browning 313 

"  How  they  Brought  the  Good  News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix" Robert  Browning. 318 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim Robert  Southey 321 

A  Story  for  a  Child Bayard  Taylor 323 

The  Glove  and  the  Lions Leigh  Hunt 324 

Young  Lochinvar Walter  Scott 326 

The  Pipes  at  Lticknow John  Greenleaf  Whittier  ....  327 

The  Inchcape  Rock Robert  Southey 330 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter Thomas  Campbell 332 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus Henry  Wadsworlh  Longfellow  334 

"We  are  Seven" William  Wordsworth 337 

Lucy  Gray William  Wordsworth 340 

Alice  Fell William  Wordsworth 342 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  344 

The  Babes  in  the  Wood Unknown 349 

Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale Unknown 354 

God's  Judgment  on  a  Wicked  Bishop  Robert  Southey 358 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin Rob  en  Browning 361 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  G\\p\nWilliam  Cowper 370 

MY  COUNTRY 

"Breathes  There  a  Man" Walter  Scott 380 

America Samuel  Francis  Smith 381 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner Francis  Scott  Key 382 

The  American  Flag Joseph  Rodman  Drake 383 

"Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race"  ....  William  Cullen  Bryant 385 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic Julia  Ward  Howe 386 

Concord  Hymn Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 387 

The  Flag  Goes  By Henry  Holcomb  Bennett 388 


xvi  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

"Ye  Mariners  of  England  " Thomas  Campbell 389 

"England,  My  England  " William  Ernest  Henley 390 

The  Song  of  the  Bow Arthur  Conan  Doyle 392 

Agincourt Michael  Drayton 393 

Drake's  Drum Henry  Newbolt 397 

Ivry Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  398 

Warren's  Address  at  Bunker  Hill.  .  .  .John  Pierpont 401 

Song  of  Marion's  Men William  Cullen  Bryant 402 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  after 

Corunna Charles  Wolfe 404 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp Robert  Browning 405 

Old  Ironsides Olive/-  Wendell  Holmes 407 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade.  .  .  .Alfred  Tennyson 408 

The  Private  of  the  Buffs Francis  Hastings  Doyle     .  .  .  409 

Kearny  at  Seven  Pines Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  .  .  411 

Farragut William  Tuckey  Meredith.  .  .  412 

"Of  Old  Sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights"////^  Tennyson 414 

An  Ode  in  Imitation  of  Alcaeus William  Jones 415 

1  he  Ship  of  State Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  416 

-The  Fatherland James  Russell  Lowell 416 

Recessional Rudyard  Kipling 417 

THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"How  Sleep  the  Brave" William  Collins 420 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior  ....  William  Wordsworth 421 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  423 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  .Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  .  .  .  425 

Casabianca Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  .  .  .  426 

The  Lost  Colors Elizabeth  Stuart  P helps  Ward  428 

The  Loss  of  the  Birkenhead Francis  Hastings  Doyle 429 

Craven Henry  Newbolt 43 1 

Columbus Joaquin  Miller 43  2 

"O  Captain!  My  Captain" Walt  Whitman 434 

He  Fell  Among  Thieves Henry  Newbolt 43  5 

Young  Windebank Margaret  L.  Woods 436 

The  Song  of  the  Camp Bayard  Taylor 438 

"  Soldier,  Rest!  Thy  Warfare  O'er"  .  .  Walter  Scott 439 

A  Ballad  of  Heroes Austin  Dobson 440 

"If  I  Should  Die" Rupert  Brooke 141 

Epilogue  from  "Asolando" Robert  Browning  ....  442 

LIFE  LESSONS 

The  Noble  Nature Ben  Jonson 444 

Abou  Ben  Adhem Leigh  Hunt 445 

"  For  a'  That  and  a'  That " Robert  Burns 445 

The  House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road .  .  Sam  Walter  Foss 447 

A  Legend  of  the  Northland Phot-be  Clary 448 

Four  Things Flt-nry  I'an  D\kr 451 

The  Celestial  Surgeon Robert  Louis  Stevenson 451 

Sir  Lark  and  King  Sun:  A  Parable  .  .George  Macdonald 452 

The  Cricket's  Story Emma  Huntington  Nason.  .  .  453 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xvii 

PAGE 

To-day Thomas  Carlyle 456 

The  Village  Blacksmith Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  456 

Excelsior Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfellow  458 

A  Psalm  of  Life Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  460 

Tin-  1  luitage .James  Russell  Lowell 461 ' 

How  the  Little  Kite  Learned  to  Fly  .  Unknown 463 

Do  You  1'Vui  the  Wind Hamlin  Garland 464 

Forbearance Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 464 

The  Splendid  Spur Arthur  Quiller-Couch 465 

Invictus William  Ernest  Henley 465 

My  Prayer Henry  David  Thoreau 466 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  467 

Little  and  Great Charles  Mackay 467 

The  Effect  of  Example John  Keble 469 

The  Captain's  Daughter James  Thomas  Fields 469 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus James  Russell  Lowell 4?o- 

Good  King  Wenceslas John  Mason  Neal 472 

The  Happiest  Heart John  Vance  Cheney 473 

Stanzas  from  "  Ode  to  Duty" William  Wordsworth 474 

A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

On    First    Looking    into    Chapman's 

Homer John  Keats 476 

"Under  the  Greenwood  Tree" William  Shakespeare 477 

"  Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind"  .  .  William  Shakespeare 477 

"I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud"  .  .  .  William  Wordsworth 478 

"The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us" .  .  William  Wordsworth 479 

The  Rainbow William  Wordsworth 479 

"The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High"  .Joseph  Addison 480 

Ode  on  Solitude Alexander  Pope 481 

The  Shepherd  Boy  Sings John  Bunyan 481 

"  He  Liveth  Long  who  Liveth  Well "  .  Horatius  Sonar 482 

The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life Henry  Wotton 483 

The  Life  Upright Thomas  Campion 484 

Honesty Horatius  Bonar 48-5 

On  His  Blindness .  John  Milton 485 

"  Say  Not,  the  Struggle  Naught  Avail- 

eth" Arthur  Hugh  Clough 486 

To  a  Mouse Robert  Burns 486 

The  Rhodora Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 488 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn John  Keats 489 

The  Chambered  Nautilus Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 490 

To  a  Waterfowl William  Cullen  Bryant 491 

Gradatim Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 493 

A  Turkish  Legend Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 494 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 494  - 

"She   Dwelt  Among   the   Untrodden 

Ways" William  Wordsworth 495 

"Three  Years  She  Grew" William  Wordsworth 495 

Annabel  Lee Edgar  Allan  Poe 497 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard   Thomas  Gray 498 


XV111 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Thanatopsis William  Cullen  Bryant 502 

Crossing  the  Bar Alfred  Tennyson 505 

Requiem Robert  Louis  Stevenson 506 

"  So  Be  My  Passing" William  Ernest  Henley 506 

Prospice Robert  Browning 507 

"Joy,  Shipmate,  Joy" Walt  Whitman 508 

Index  of  Authors 511 

Index  of  First  Lines 523 

Index  of  Titles 533 


y.  |n  ffie  Ndraety 


c? 

Q 


BABY- LAND 

Which  is  the  way  to  Baby-land? 
Any  one  can  tell; 

Up  one  flight, 

To  your  right; 
Please  to  ring  the  bell. 

What  can  you  see  in  Baby-land? 
Little  folks  in  white, 

Downy  heads, 

Cradle-beds, 
Faces  pure  and  bright. 

What  do  they  do  in  Baby-land? 
Dream  and  wake  and  play, 
Laugh  and  crow, 
Shout  and  grow, 
Jolly  times  have  they. 

What  do  they  say  in  Baby-land? 
Why,  the  oddest  things; 
Might  as  well 
Try  to  tell 
What  a  birdie  sings. 

Who  is  the  Queen  of  Baby-land? 
Mother,  kind  and  sweet; 
And  her  love, 
Born  above, 
Guides  the  little  feet. 

George  Coo\ 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

MOTHER  GOOSE'S  MELODIES 

Mistress  Mary,  quite  contrary, 
How  does  your  garden  grow? 
With  cockle-shells,  and  silver  bells, 
And  pretty  maids  all  in  a  row. 


Peter,  Peter,  pumpkin  eater, 
Had  a  wife  and  couldn't  keep  her; 
He  put  her  in  a  pumpkin  shell 
And  there  he  kept  her  very  well. 


Rub-a-dub-dub, 
Three  men  in  a  tub, 

And  who  do  you  think  they  be? 
The  butcher,  the  baker, 
The  candlestick-maker; 

Turn  'em  out,  knaves  all  three! 


I'll  tell  you  a  story 
About  Jack  a  Nory— 

And  now  my  story's  begun; 
I'll  tell  you  another 
About  Johnny,  his  brother- 

And  now  my  story  is  done. 


Hickory,  dickory,  dock,         *• 
The  mouse  ran  up  the  clock; 
The  clock  struck  one, 
The  mouse  ran  down, 
Hickory,  dickory,  dock, 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

A  dillar,  a  dollar,  a  ten  o'clock  scholar, 
What  makes  you  come  so  soon? 

You  used  to  come  at  ten  o'clock, 
But  now  you  come  at  noon. 


Higgleby,  piggleby,  my  black  hen, 
She  lays  eggs  for  gentlemen; 
Sometimes  nine,  and  sometimes  ten, 
Higgleby,  piggleby,  my  black  hen. 


Three  wise  men  of  Gotham 
Went  to  sea  in  a  bowl; 
If  the  bowl  had  been  stronger, 
My  song  had  been  longer. 


There  was  an  old  woman  lived  under  a  hill, 
And  if  she's  not  gone,*she  lives  there  still. 


One  misty,  moisty  morning, 

When  cloudy  wa§,  the  weather, 
I  met  a  little  old  man 

Clothed  all  in  leather; 
He  began  to  bow  and  scrape, 

And  I  began  to  grin, — 
How  do  you  do,  and  how  do  you  do, 

And  how  do  you  do  again? 


There  was  a  little  man,  and  he  had  a  little^gun, 
And  his  bullets  were  made  of  lead,  lead,  lead; 

He  shot  Johnny  Sprig  tfirOHgh  the  middle  of  his  wig, 
And  knocked  it  right  off  his  head,  head,  head. 


There  was  an  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  shoe, 
She  had  so  many  children  she  didn't  know  what  to  do; 
She  gave  them  some  broth  without  any  bread; 
Then  whipped  them  all  soundly  and  put  them  to  bed. 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

Pease-pudding  hot, 

Pease-pudding  cold, 
Pease-pudding  in  the  pot, 

Nine  days  old. 
Some  like  it  hot, 

Some  like  it  cold, 
Some  like  it  in  the  pot, 

Nine  days  old. 


Hey,  diddle,  diddle,       ^ 

The  cat  and  the  fiddle, 
The  cow  jumped  over  the  moon; 

The  little  dog  laughed 

To  see  such  sport, 
And  the  dish  ran  away  with  the  spoon, 


Little  Jack  Horner 

Sat  in  a  corner 
Eating  a  Christmas  pie; 

He  put  in  his  thumb, 

And  pulled  out  a  plum, 
And  said,  "What  a  good  boy  am  I!" 


Little  Miss  Muffet,          ^S^ 

Sat  on  a  tuffet, 
Eating  of  curds  and  whey; 

There  came  a  great  spider 

That  sat  down  beside  her, 
And  frightened  Miss  Muffet  away. 


Little  Polly  Flinders, 

Sat  among  the  cinders, 
Warming  her  pretty  little  toes; 

Her  mother  came  and  caught  her, 

And  whipped  her  little  daughter 
For  spoiling  her  nice  new  clothes. 


6  IN  THE  NURSERY 

There  was  a  crooked  man,  and  he  went  a  crooked  mile; 
He  found  a  crooked  sixpence  against  a  crooked  stile: 
He  bought  a  crooked  cat,  which  caught  a  crooked  mouse, 
And  they  all  lived  together  in  a  little  crooked  house. 


Barber,  barber,  shave  a  pig, 
How  many  hairs  will  make  a  wig? 
"Four-and-twenty,  that's  enough." 
Give  the  barber  a  pinch  of  snuff. 


Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  your  horn, 

The  sheep's  in  the  meadow,  the  cow's  in  the  corn; 

But  where  is  the  boy  that  looks  after  the  sheep? 

He's  under  a  hay-cock,  fast  asleep. 

Will  you  awake  him?     No,  not  I; 

For  if  I  do,  he'll  be  sure  to  cry.  « 


There  was  a  man  of  our  town, 

And  he  was  wondrous  wise, 
He  jumped  into  a  bramble  bush, 

And  scratched  out  both  his  eyes: 
But  when  he  saw  his  eyes  were  out, 

With  all  his  might  and  main, 
He  jumped  into  another  bush, 

And  scratched  'em  in  again. 

J 

Pussy-cat,  pussy-cat,  where  have  you  been? 
I've  been  to  London  to  look  at  the  Queen, 
Pussy-cat,  pussy-cat,  what  did  you  there? 
I  frightened  a  little  mouse  under  the  chair 

There  were  two  blackbirds  sitting  on  a  hill, 
The  one  named  Jack,  the  other  named  Jill; 
.  Fly  away,  Jack!     Fly  away,  Jill! 
Come  again,  Jack!    Come  again,  Jill! 


IN  THE  NURSERY  7 

Goosey,  goosey,  gander,  whither  shall  I  wander? 
Up  stairs,  down  stairs,  and  in  my  lady's  chamber. 
There  I  met  an  old  man  who  would  not  say  his  prayers; 
I  took  him  by  his  left  leg  and  threw  him  down  the  stairs. 


Baa,  baa,  black  sheep,  have  you  any  wool?       u 

Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir,  three  bags  full. 

One  for  my  master,  one  for  my  dame, 

And  one  for  the  little  boy  that  lives  in  the  lane. 


Old  King  Cole  was  a  merry  old  soul,        i^x""* 

And  a  merry  old  soul  was  he; 
He  called  for  his  pipe,  and  he  called  for  his  bowl, 

And  he  called  for  his  fiddlers  three. 
Every  fiddler,  he  had  a  fiddle, 

And  a  very  fine  fiddle  had  he; 
Twee  tweedle  dee,  tweedle  dee,  went  the  fiddlers. 
Oh,  there's  none  so  rare,  as  can  compare 

With  King  Cole  and  his  fiddlers  three! 


Ride  a  cock-horse  to  Banbury  Cross, 
To  see  a  fine  lady  ride  on  a  white  horse, 
Rings  on  her  fingers,  and  bells  on  her  toes, 
She  shall  have  music  wherever  she  goes. 


Hector  Protector  was  dressed  all  in  green; 
Hector  Protector  was  sent  to  the  Queen. 
The  Queen  did  not  like  him,  no  more  did  the  King; 
So  Hector  Protector  was  sent  back  again. 


Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pickled  peppers; 

A  peck  of  pickled  peppers  Peter  Piper  picked; 

If  Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pickled  peppers, 

Where's  the  peck  of  pickled  peppers  Peter  Piper  picked? 


8 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

Jack  Sprat  could  eat  no  fat, 
His  wife  could  eat  no  lean, 

And  so,  betwixt  them  both,  you  see, 
They  licked  the  platter  clean. 


As  Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessy  Brooks 
Were  walking  out  one  Sunday, 

Says  Tommy  Snooks  to  Bessy  Brooks, 
"Tomorrow  will  be  Monday." 


Six  little  mice  sat  down  to  spin, 
Pussy  passed  by,  and  she  peeped  in. 
"What  are  you  at,  my  little  men?" 
"Making  coats  for  gentlemen." 
"Shall  I  come  in  and  bite  off  your  threads?" 
"No,  no,  Miss  Pussy,  you'll  snip  off  our  heads." 
"Oh,  no,  I'll  not,  I'll  help  you  to  spin." 
"That  may  be  so,  but  you  don't  come  in!" 


To  market,  to  market,  to  buy  a  fat  pig, 
Home  again,  home  again,  jiggety-jig; 
To  market,  to  market,  to  buy  a  fat  hog, 
Home  again,  home  again,  jiggety-jog; 
To  market,  to  market,  to  buy  a  plum  bun, 
Home  again,  home  again,  market  is  done. 


"I  HAD  A  LITTLE  HUSBAND" 

I  had  a  little  husband 

No  bigger  than  my  thumb; 

I  put  him  in  a  pint  pot, 
And  there  I  bid  him  drum. 

I  bought  a  little  horse 

That  galloped  up  and  down; 

I  bridled  him  and  saddled  him, 
And  sent  him  out  of  town. 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

I  gave  him  some  garters, 
To  garter  up  his  hose, 

And  a  little  handkerchief, 
To  wipe  his  pretty  nose. 


JACK  AND  JILL 


Jack  and  Jill  went  up  the  hill, 
To  fetch  a  pail  of  water; 

Jack  fell  down  and  broke  his  crown 
And  Jill  came  tumbling  after. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  HEARTS 

The  Queen  of  Hearts 
She  made  some  tarts, 

All  on  a  summer's  day; 
The  Knave  of  Hearts 
He  stole  those  tarts, 

And  took  them  clean  away. 

The  King  of  Hearts 
Called  for  the  tarts, 

And  beat  the  Knave  full  sore; 
The  Knave  of  Hearts 
Brought  back  the  tarts, 

And  vowed  he'd  steal  no  more. 


SING  A  SONG  OF  SIXPENCE" 

Sing  a  song  of  sixpence, 

A  pocket  full  of  rye; 
Four-and-twenty  blackbirds 

Baked  in  a  pie; 


10  IN  THE  NURSERY 

When  the  pie  was  opened, 
The  birds  began  to  sing: 

Wasn't  that  a  dainty  dish 
To  set  before  the  King? 

The  King  was  in  his  counting-house 

Counting  out  his  money; 
The  Queen  was  in  the  parlor 

Eating  bread  and  honey; 
The  maid  was  in  the  garden 

Hanging  out  the  clothes, 
When  down  came  a  blackbird, 

And  nipped  off  her  nose. 


SIMPLE  SIMON 

Simple  Simon  met  a  pieman 

Going  to  the  fair; 
Says  Simple  Simon  to  the  pieman, 

"Let  me  taste  your  ware." 

Says  the  pieman  to  Simple  Simon, 
"Show  me  first  your  penny;" 

Says  Simple  Simon  to  the  pieman, 
"Indeed  I  have  not  any." 

Simple  Simon  went  a-fishing 

For  to  catch  a  whale; 
All  the  water  he  had  got 

Was  in  his  mother's  pail. 

Simple  Simon  went  to  look 
If  plums  grew  on  a  thistle; 

He  pricked  his  fingers  very  much, 
Which  made  poor  Simon  whistle. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  1 1 


GOOD  KING  ARTHUR 

When  good  King  Arthur  ruled  this  land, 

He  was  a  goodly  King; 
He  stole  three  pecks  of  barley  meal, 

To  make  a  bag-pudding. 

A  bag-pudding  the  Queen  did  make, 
And  stuffed  it  well  with  plums: 

And  in  it  put  great  lumps  of  fat, 
As  big  as  my  two  thumbs. 

The  King  and  Queen  did  eat  thereof, 

And  noblemen  beside; 
And  what  they  could  not  eat  that  night, 

The  Queen  next  morning  fried. 


"A  FARMER  WENT  TROTTING" 

A  farmer  went  trotting  upon  his  gray  mare; 

Bumpety,  bumpety,  bump! 
With  his  daughter  behind  him,  so  rosy  and  fair; 

Lumpety,  lumpety,  lump! 

A  raven  cried  croak!  and  they  all  tumbled  down; 

Bumpety,  bumpety,  bump! 
The  mare  broke  her  knees,  and  the  farmer  his  crown; 

Lumpety,  lumpety,  lump! 

The  mischievous  raven  flew  laughing  away; 

Bumpety,  bumpety,  bump! 
And  vowed  he  would  serve  them  the  same  the  next  day; 

Lumpety,  lumpety,  lump! 


12 


IN  THE  NURSERY 


JOHNNY  SHALL  HAVE  A  NEW  BONNET 

Johnny  shall  have  a  new  bonnet, 
And  Johnny  shall  go  to  the  fair, 

And  Johnny  shall  have  a  blue  ribbon 
To  tie  up  his  bonny  brown  hair. 

And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny, 
And  why  may  not  Johnny  love  me? 

And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny 
As  well  as  another  body? 

And  here's  a  leg  for  a  stocking, 

And  here's  a  foot  for  a  shoe; 
And  he  has  a  kiss  for  his  daddy, 

And  one  for  his  mammy,  too. 

And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny, 
And  why  may  not  Johnny  love  me? 

And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny, 
As  well  as  another  body? 


v/    ROBIN  REDBREAST 

Little  Robin  Redbreast  sat  upon  a  tree, 

Up  went  pussy-cat,  and  down  went  he; 

Down  came  pussy-cat,  and  away  Robin  ran; 

Said  little  Robin  Redbreast,  "Catch  me  if  you  can." 

Little  Robin  Redbreast  jumped  upon  a  wall, 
Pussy-cat  jumped  after  him,  and  almost  got  a  fall; 
Little   Robin    chirped    and   sang,    and    what   did    pussy 


say: 

Pussy-cat    said    naught 
away. 


but    "Mew,"    and    Robin    flew 


IN  THE  NURSERY  13 


"I  HAD  A  LITTLE  DOGGY" 

I  had  a  little  Doggy  that  used  to  sit  and  beg; 
But  Doggy  tumbled  down  the  stairs  and  broke  his  little  leg. 
Oh !  Doggy,  I  will  nurse  you,  and  try  to  make  you  well, 
And  you  shall  have  a  collar  with  a  little  silver  bell. 

Ah!  Doggy,  don't  you  think  that  you  should  very  faithful 

be, 

For  having  such  a  loving  friend  to  comfort  you  as  me? 
And  when  your  leg  is  better,  and  you  can  run  and  play, 
We'll  have  a  scamper  in  the  fields  and  see  them  making 

hay. 

But,  Doggy,  you  must  promise  (and  mind  your  word  you 

keep) 

Not  once  to  tease  the  little  lambs,  or  run  among  the  sheep; 
And  then  the  little  yellow  chicks  that  play  upon  the  grass, 
You  must  not  even  wag  your  tail  to  scare  them  as  you  pass. 


THE  TURTLE-DOVES'  NEST      * 

High  in  the  pine-tree, 

The  little  turtle-dove 
Made  a  little  nursery 

To  please  her  little  love: 
"Coo,"  said  the  turtle-dove, 

"Coo,"  said  she, 
In  the  long  shady  branches 

Of  the  dark  pine-tree. 

The  young  turtle-doves 

Never  quarrelled  in  the  nest: 

For  they  loved  each  other  dearly, 

Though  they  loved  their  mother  best: 


14  IN  THE  NURSERY 

"Coo,"  said  the  little  doves, 

"Coo!  "said  she, 
And  they  played  together  kindly 

In  the  dark  pine-tree. 

LITTLE  BO-PEEP 

Little  Bo-peep  has  lost  her  sheep, 

And  can't  tell  where  to  find  them; 
Leave  them  alone,  and  they'll  come  home, 

And  bring  their  tails  behind  them. 

Little  Bo-peep  fell  fast  asleep, 

And  dreamed  she  heard  them  bleating; 

But  when  she  awoke,  she  found  it  a  joke, 
For  they  were  still  a-fleeting. 

Then  up  she  took  her  little  crook, 

Determined  for  to  find  them; 
She  found  them  indeed,  but  it  made  her  heart  bleed, 

For  they'd  left  their  tails  behind  them! 


MARY'S  LAMB 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb, 

Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow; 

And  everywhere  that  Mary  went, 
The  lamb  was  sure  to  go. 

He  followed  her  to  school  one  day, 
Which  was  against  the  rule; 

It  made  the  children  laugh  and  play 
To  see  a  lamb  at  school. 

And  so  the  teacher  turned  him  out, 
But  still  he  lingered  near, 

And  waited  patiently  about 
Till  Mary  did  appear. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  15 

Then  he  ran  to  her,  and  laid 

His  head  upon  her  arm, 
As  if  he  said,  "I'm  not  afraid— 

You'll  keep  me  from  all  harm." 

"What  makes  the  lamb  love  Mary  so?" 

The  eager  children  cried. 
"Oh,  Mary  loves  the  lamb,  you  know," 

The  teacher  quick  replied. 

And  you  each  gentle  animal 

In  confidence  may  bind, 
And  make  them  follow  at  your  will, 

If  you  are  only  kind. 

THE  STAR 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star, 
How  I  wonder  what  you  are, 
Up  above  the  world  so  high, 
Like  a  diamond  in  the  sky. 

When  the  blazing  sun  is  set, 
And  the  grass  with  dew  is  wet, 
Then  you  show  your  little  light, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  all  the  night. 

Then  the  traveler  in  the  dark 
Thanks  you  for  your  tiny  spark, 
He  could  not  see  where  to  go 
If  you  did  not  twinkle  so. 

In  the  dark  blue  sky  you  keep, 
And  often  through  my  curtains  peep, 
For  you  never  shut  your  eye 
Till  the  sun  is  in  the  sky. 


16 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

As  your  bright  and  tiny  spark 
Lights  the  traveler  in  the  dark, 
Though  I  know  not  what  you  are, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star. 

Jane  Taylor 

"MOON,  SO  ROUND  AND  YELLOW" 

Moon,  so  round  and  yellow, 

Looking  from  on  high, 
How  I  love  to  see  you 

Shining  in  the  sky. 
Oft  and  oft  I  wonder, 

When  I  see  you  there, 
How  they  get  to  light  you, 

Hanging  in  the  air: 

Where  you  go  at  morning, 

When  the  night  is  past, 
And  the  sun  comes  peeping 

O'er  the  hills  at  last. 
Sometime  I  will  watch  you 

Slyly  overhead, 
When  you  think  I'm  sleeping 

Snugly  in  my  bed. 


Matthias  Barr 


THE  COW 


Thank  you,  pretty  cow,  that  made 
Pleasant  milk  to  soak  my  bread, 
Every  day,  and  every  night, 
Warm,  and  fresh,  and  sweet,  and  white. 

Do  not  chew  the  hemlock  rank, 
Growing  on  the  weedy  bank; 
But  the  yellow  cowslips  eat, 
They  will  make  it  very  sweet. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  1 7 

Where  the  purple  violet  grows, 
Where  the  bubbling  water  flows, 
Where  the  grass  is  fresh  and  fine, 
Pretty  cow,  go  there  and  dine. 

Ann  Taylor 

THE  LAMB 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee, 
Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee; 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild; 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

William  Blake 

THE  CITY  MOUSE  AND  THE  GARDEN  MOUSE 

The  city  mouse  lives  in  a  house; — 
The  garden  mouse  lives  in  a  bower, 

He's  friendly  with  the  frogs  and  toads, 
And  sees  the  pretty  plants  in  flower. 


18  IN  THE  NURSERY 

The  city  mouse  eats  bread  and  cheese; — 
The  garden  mouse  eats  what  he  can; 

We  will  not  grudge  him  seeds  and  stocks, 
Poor  little  timid  furry  man. 

Christina  Rossetti 


THE  CLOCKING  HEN 

"Will  you  take  a  walk  with  me, 

My  little  wife  to-day? 
There's  barley  in  the  barley-fields, 

And  hay-seed  in  the  hay." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  clocking  hen; 

"I've  something  else  to  do; 
I'm  busy  sitting  on  my  eggs, 

I  cannot  walk  with  you. 

"Clock,  clock,  clock,  clock," 

Said  the  clocking  hen; 
"My  little  chicks  will  soon  be  hatched, 

I'll  think  about  it  then." 

The  clocking  hen  sat  on  her  nest, 

She  made  it  in  the  hay; 
And  warm  and  snug  beneath  her  breast 

A  dozen  white  eggs  lay. 

Crack,  crack,  went  all  the  eggs; 

Out  dropped  the  chickens  small! 
"Clock,"  said  the  clocking  hen, 

"Now  I  have  you  all. 

"Come  along,  my  little  chicks, 

I'll  take  a  walk  with  you." 
"Hallo!"  said  the  barn-door  cock, 

"Cock-a-doodle-doo." 


IN  THE  NURSERY  19 

THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 
This  is  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  rat 
That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  cat 
That  killed  the  rat 
That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  dog 
That  worried  the  cat 
That  killed  the  rat 
That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn 

That  tossed  the  dog 

That  worried  the  cat 

That  killed  the  rat 

That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  maiden  all  forlorn 

That  milked  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn 

That  tossed  the  dog 

That  worried  the  cat 

That  killed  the  rat 

That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 


20  IN  THE  NURSERY 

This  is  the  man  all  tattered  and  torn 

That  kissed  the  maiden  all  forlorn 

That  milked  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn 

That  tossed  the  dog 

That  worried  the  cat 

That  killed  the  rat 

That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  priest  all  shaven  and  shorn 
That  married  the  man  all  tattered  and  torn 
That  kissed  the  maiden  all  forlorn 
That  milked  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn 

That  tossed  the  dog 

That  worried  the  cat 

That  killed  the  rat 

That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  cock  that  crowed  in  the  morn 
That  waked  the  priest  all  shaven  and  shorn 
That  married  the  man  all  tattered  and  torn 
That  kissed  the  maiden  all  forlorn 
That  milked  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn 

That  tossed  the  dog 

That  worried  the  cat 

That  killed  the  rat 

That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

This  is  the  farmer  sowing  his  corn 

That  kept  the  cock  that  crowed  in  the  morn 

That  waked  the  priest  all  shavm  and  shorn 

That  married  the  man  all  tattered  and  torn 

That  kissed  the  maiden  all  forlorn 

That  milked  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn 


IN  THE  NURSERY  21 

That  tossed  the  dog 
That  worried  the  cat 
That  killed  the  rat 
That  ate  the  malt 
That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

OLD  MOTHER  HUBBARD 

Old  Mother  Hubbard 

Went  to  the  cupboard, 
To  get  her  poor  dog  a  bone: 

But  when  she  got  there 

The  cupboard  was  bare, 
And  so  the  poor  dog  had  none. 

She  went  to  the  baker's 

To  buy  him  some  bread, 
But  when  she  came  back 

The  poor  dog  was  dead. 

She  went  to  the  joiner's 

To  buy  him  a  coffin, 
But  when  she  came  back 

The  poor  dog  was  laughing. 

She  took  a  clean  dish 

To  get  him  some  tripe, 
But  when  she  came  back 

He  was  smoking  a  pipe. 

She  went  to  the  fishmonger's 

To  buy  him  some  fish, 
But  when  she  came  back 

He  was  licking  the  dish. 

She  went  to  the  hatter's 

To  buy  him  a  hat, 
But  when  she  came  back 

He  was  feeding  the  cat. 


22 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

She  went  to  the  barber's 

To  buy  him  a  wig, 
But  when  she  came  back 

He  was  dancing  a  jig. 

She  went  to  the  fruiterer's 
To  buy  him  some  fruit, 

But  when  she  came  back 
He  was  playing  the  flute. 

She  went  to  the  tailor's 

To  buy  him  a  coat, 
But  when  she  came  back 

He  was  riding  a  goat. 

She  went  to  the  cobbler's 
To  buy  him  some  shoes, 

But  when  she  came  back 
He  was  reading  the  news. 

She  went  to  the  seamstress 
To  buy  him  some  linen, 

But  when  she  came  back 
The  dog  was  spinning. 

She  went  to  the  hosier's 
To  buy  him  some  hose, 

But  when  she  came  back 

He  was  dressed  in  his  clothes. 

The  dame  made  a  curtesy, 

The  dog  made  a  bow, 
The  dame  said,  "Your  servant," 

The  dog  said,  "Bow-wow." 

This  wonderful  dog 

Was  Dame  Hubbard's  delight; 
He  could  sing,  he  could  dance, 

He  could  read,  he  could  write. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  23 

She  gave  him  rich  dainties 

Whenever  he  fed, 
And  built  him  a  monument 

When  he  was  dead. 


THE  DEATH  AND  BURIAL  OF  COCK  ROBIN 

Who  killed  Cock  Robin? 

"I,"  said  the  Sparrow, 

"With  my  bow  and  arrow, 
I  killed  Cock  Robin." 

Who  saw  him  die? 

"I,"  said  the  Fly, 

"With  my  little  eye, 
I  saw  him  die." 

Who  caught  his  blood  ? 

"I,"  said  the  Fish, 

"With  my  little  dish, 
I  caught  his  blood." 

Who'll  make  his  shroud  ? 
"I,"  said  the  Beetle, 
"With  my  thread  and  needle, 

I'll  make  his  shroud." 

Who'll  dig  his  grave? 
"I,"  said  the  Owl, 
"With  my  spade  and  trowel, 

I'll  dig  his  grave." 

Who'll  be  the  parson? 

"I,"  said  the  Rook, 

"With  my  little  book. 
I'll  be  the  parson." 


24 


IN  THE  NURSERY 

Who'll  be  the  clerk? 

"I,"  said  the  Lark, 

"I'll  say  Amen  in  the  dark; 
I'll  be  the  clerk." 

Who'll  be  chief  mourner? 
"I,"  said  the  Dove, 
"I  mourn  for  my  love; 

I'll  be  chief  mourner." 

Who'll  bear  the  torch? 
"I,"  said  the  Linnet, 
'Til  come  in  a  minute, 

I'll  bear  the  torch." 

Who'll  sing  his  dirge? 
"I,"  said  the  Thrush, 
"As  I  sing  in  the  bush, 

I'll  sing  his  dirge." 

Who'll  bear  the  pall? 
"  We,"  said  the  Wren, 
Both  the  Cock  and  the  Hen; 

"We'll  bear  the  pall." 

Who'll  carry  his  coffin? 
"I,"  said  the  Kite, 
"If  it  be  in  the  night, 

I'll  carry  his  coffin." 

Who'll  toll  the  bell? 

"I,"  said  the  Bull, 

."Because  I  can  pull, 
I'll  toll  the  bell." 

All  the  birds  of  tht-  air 

Fell  to  sighing  and  sobbing 

When  they  heard  the  bell  toll 
For  poor  Cock  Robin. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  25 


INFANT  JOY 

"I  have  no  name; 
I  am  but  two  days  old." 
What  shall  I  callthee? 
"I  happy  am, 
Joy  is  my  name." 
Sweet  joy  befall  thee! 

Pretty  joy! 

Sweet  joy,  but  two  days  old. 

Sweet  joy  I  call  thee; 

Thou  dost  smile, 

I  sing  the  while; 

Sweet  joy  befall  thee! 

William  Blake 


"ONLY  A  BABY  SMALL" 

Only  a  baby  small, 

Dropped  from  the  skies, 
Only  a  laughing  face, 

Two  sunny  eyes; 
Only  two  cherry  lips, 

One  chubby  nose; 
Only  two  little  hands, 

Ten  little  toes. 

Only  a  golden  head, 

Curly  and  soft; 
Only  a  tongue  that  wags 

Loudly  and  oft; 
Only  a  little  brain, 

Empty  of  thought; 
Only  a  little  heart, 

Troubled  with  naught. 


26  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Only  a  tender  flower 

Sent  us  to  rear; 
Only  a  life  to  love 

While  we  are  here; 
Only  a  baby  small, 

Never  at  rest; 
Small,  but  how  dear  to  us, 

God  knoweth  best. 

Matthias  Barr 

STRANGE  LANDS 

Where  do  you  come  from,  Mr.  Jay? 
"From  the  land  of  Play,  from  the  land  of  Play." 
And  where  can  that  be,  Mr.  Jay? 
"Far  away — far  away." 

Where  do  you  come  from  Mrs.  Dove? 
"From  the  land  of  Love,  from  the  land  of  Love." 
And  how  do  you  get  there,  Mrs.  Dove? 
"Look  above — look  above." 

Where  do  you  come  from,  Baby  Miss? 

"From  the  land  of  Bliss,  from  the  land  of  Bliss." 

And  what  is  the  way  there,  Baby  Miss? 

"Mother's  kiss — mother's  kiss." 

Laurence  Alma-T ade ma 

BABY 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  U-fr  in. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  27 

Win- re  did  you  get  that  little  tear? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white  rose? 
I  saw  something  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 

George  Macdonald 

BARTHOLOMEW 

Bartholomew  is  very  sweet, 
From  sandy  hair  to  rosy  feet. 

Bartholomew  is  six  months  old, 
And  dearer  far  than  pearls  or  gold. 

Bartholomew  has  deep  blue  eyes, 
Round  pieces  dropped  from  out  the  skies. 


28  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Bartholomew  is  hugged  and  kissed: 
He  loves  a  flower  in  either  fist. 

Bartholomew's  my  saucy  son: 
No  mother  has  a  sweeter  one! 

Norman  Gale 


THE  BREAKFAST  SONG 

At  five  o'clock  he  milks  the  cow, 

The  busy  farmer's  man. 
At  six  o'clock  he  strains  the  milk 

And  pours  it  in  the  can. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  milkman's  horse 

Must  go  to  town — "get  up!" 
At  eight  o'clock  Nurse  Karen  pours 

The  milk  in  Baby's  cup. 

At  five  o'clock  the  Baby  sleeps 

As  sound  as  sound  can  be. 
At  six  o'clock  he  laughs  and  shouts, 

So  wide  awake  is  he. 

At  seven  o'clock  he's  in  his  bath, 

At  eight  o'clock  he's  dressed, 
Just  when  the  milk  is  ready,  too, 

So  you  can  guess  the  rest. 

Emilie  Poulsson 

BABY'S  BREAKFAST      , 

Baby  wants  his  breakfast, 

Oh!  what  shall  I  do? 
Said  the  cow,  "I'll  give  him 

Nice  fresh  milk — moo-oo/" 


IN  THE  NURSERY  29 

Said  the  hen,  "Cut-dah  cut! 

I  have  laid  an  egg 
For  the  Baby's  breakfast — 

Take  it  now,  I  beg!" 

And  the  buzzing  bee  said, 

"Here  is  honey  sweet. 
Don't  you  think  the  Baby 

Would  like  that  to  eat?" 

Then  the  baker  kindly 

Brought  the  Baby's  bread. 
"Breakfast  is  all  ready," 

Baby's  mother  said; 

"But  before  the  Baby 

Eats  his  dainty  food, 
Will  he  not  say  'Thank  you!' 

To  his  friends  so  good?" 

Then  the  bonny  Baby 

Laughed  and  laughed  away. 
That  was  all  the  "Thank  you" 

He  knew  how  to  say. 

Emilie  Poulsson 


BABY  AT  PLAY 

Brow  bender, 

Eye  peeper, 

Nose  smeller, 

Mouth  eater, 

Chin  chopper, 

Knock  at  the  door — peep  in, 

Lift  up  the  latch — walk  in. 


30  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Here  sits  the  Lord  Mayor,  [Forehead. 

Here  sit  his  two  men,  [Eyes. 

Here  sits  the  cock,  [Right  cheek. 

And  here  sits  the  hen;  [Left  cheek. 

Here  sit  the  chickens,  [Tip  of  nose. 

And  here  they  go  in,  [Mouth. 
Chippety,  chippety,  chippety  chin.  [Chuck  the  chin. 

Ring  the  bell! 
Knock  at  the  door! 
Lift  up  the  latch! 
Walk  in! 

This  little  pig  went  to  market; 

This  little  pig  stayed  at  home; 

This  little  pig  got  roast  beef; 

This  little  pig  got  none; 

This  little  pig  cried  wee,  wee,  all  the  way  home. 

One,  two, 
Buckle  my  shoe; 
Three,  four, 
Shut  the  door; 
Five,  six, 
Pick  up  sticks; 
Seven,  eight, 
Lay  them  straight; 
Nine,  ten, 
A  good  fat  hen; 
Eleven,  twelve, 
Who  will  delve? 
Thirteen,  fourteen, 
Maids  a-courting; 
Fifteen,  sixteen, 
Maids  a-kissing; 
Seventeen,  eighteen, 
Maids  a-waiting; 


IN  THE  NURSERY  31 

Nineteen,  twenty, 
My  stomach's  empty. 


THE  DIFFERENCE 

Eight  fingers, 

Ten  toes, 
Two  eyes, 

And  one  nose. 
Baby  said 

When  she  smelt  the  rose, 
"Oh!  what  a  pity 

I've  only  one  nose!" 

Ten  teeth 

In  even  rows, 
Three  dimples, 

And  one  nose. 
Baby  said 

When  she  smelt  the  snufF, 
" Deary  me! 

One  nose  is  enough." 

Laura  E.  Richards 


THE  FIVE  LITTLE  FAIRIES 

FINGER-PLAY 

Said  this  little  fairy, 

"I'm  as  thirsty  as  can  be!" 

Said  this  little  fairy, 

"I'm  hungry,  too!  dear  me!" 

Said  this  little  fairy, 
"Who'll  tell  us  where  to  go?" 


32  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Said  this  little  fairy, 

"I'm  sure  that  I  don't  know!" 

Said  this  little  fairy, 

"Let's  brew  some  Dew-drop  Tea!" 
So  they  sipped  it  and  ate  honey 

Beneath  the  maple  tree. 

Maud  Burnham 

FOOT  SOLDIERS 

'Tis  all  the  way  to  Toe-town, 

Beyond  the  Knee-high  hill, 
That  Baby  has  to  travel  down 

To  see  the  soldiers  drill. 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  a-row — 

A  captain  and  his  men — 
And  on  the  other  side,  you  know, 

Are  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten. 

John  Banister  Tabb 


ONE  AND  ONE 

Two  little  girls  are  better  than  one, 
Two  little  boys  can  double  the  fun, 
Two  little  birds  can  build  a  fine  nest, 
Two  little  arms  can  love  mother  best. 
Two  little  ponies  must  go  to  a  span; 
Two  little  pockets  has  my  little  man; 
Two  little  eyes  to  open  and  close, 
Two  little  ears  and  one  little  nose, 
Two  little  elbows,  dimpled  and  sweet, 
Two  little  shoes  on  two  little  feet, 
Two  little  lips  and  one  little  chin, 
Two  little  cheeks  with  a  rose  shut  in; 


IN  THE  NURSERY  33 

Two  little  shoulders,  chubby  and  strong, 
Two  little  legs  running  all  day  long. 
Two  little  prayers  does  my  darling  say, 
Twice  does  he  kneel  by  my  side  each  day, 
Two  little  folded  hands,  soft  and  brown, 
Two  little  eyelids  cast  meekly  down, 
And  two  little  angels  guard  him  in  bed, 
"One  at  the  foot,  and  one  at  the  head." 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge 


TOM  THUMB'S  ALPHABET 

A  was  an  Archer,  who  shot  at  a  frog; 

B  was  a  Butcher,  who  had  a  great  dog; 

C  was  a  Captain,  all  covered  with  lace; 

D  was  a  Drunkard,  and  had  a  red  face; 

E  was  an  Esquire,  with  pride  on  his  brow; 

F  was  a  Farmer,  and  followed  the  plow; 

G  was  a  Gamester,  who  had  but  ill  luck; 

H  was  a  Hunter,  who  hunted  a  buck; 

I  was  an  Innkeeper,  who  loved  to  bouse; 

J  was  a  Joiner,  who  built  up  a  house; 

K  was  a  King,  so  mighty  and  grand; 

L  was  a  Lady,  who  had  a  white  hand; 

M  was  a  Miser,  and  hoarded  up  gold; 

N  was  a  Nobleman,  gallant  and  bold; 

O  was  an  Oysterman,  who  went  about  town; 

P  was  a  Parson,  and  wore  a  black  gown; 

Q  was  a  Quack,  with  a  wonderful  pill; 

R  was  a  Robber,  who  wanted  to  kill; 

S  was  a  Sailor,  who  spent  all  he  got; 

T  was  a  Tinker,  and  mended  a  pot; 

U  was  an  Usurer,  a  miserable  elf; 

V  was  a  Vintner,  who  drank  all  himself; 

W  was  a  Watchman,  who  guarded  the  door; 

X  was  Expensive,  and  so  became  poor; 


34  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Y  was  a  Youth,  that  did  not  love  school; 
Z  was  a  Zany,  a  poor  harmless  fool. 


DAYS  OF  THE  MONTH 

Thirty  days  has  September, 
April,  June,  and  November; 
All  the  rest  have  thirty-one; 
February  twenty-eight  alone, — 
Save  in  leap  year,  at  which  time 
February's  days  are  twenty-nine. 


THE  GARDEN  YEAR 

January  brings  the  snow, 
Makes  our  feet  and  fingers  glow. 

February  brings  the  rain, 
Thaws  the  frozen  lake  again. 

March  brings  breezes,  loud  and  shrill, 
To  stir  the  dancing  daffodil. 

April  brings  the  primrose  sweet, 
Scatters  daisies  at  our  feet. 

May  brings  flocks  of  pretty  lambs 
Skipping  by  their  fleecy  dams. 

June  brings  tulips,  lilies,  roses, 

Fills  the  children's  hands  with  posies. 

Hot  July  brings  cooling  showers, 
Apricots,  and  gillyflowers. 

August  brings  the  sheaves  of  corn, 
Then  the  harvest  home  is  borne. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  35 

Warm  September  brings  the  fruit; 
Sportsmen  then  begin  to  shoot. 

Fresh  October  brings  the  pheasant; 
Then  to  gather  nuts  is  pleasant. 

Dull  November  brings  the  blast; 
Then  the  leaves  are  whirling  fast. 

Chill  December  brings  the  sleet, 
Blazing  fire,  and  Christmas  treat. 

Sara  Coleridge 


RIDDLES 

There  was  a  girl  in  our  town, 

Silk  an'  satin  was  her  gown, 

Silk  an'  satin,  gold  an'  velvet, 

Guess  her  name,  three  times  I've  telled  it.     (Ann.) 

As  soft  as  silk,  as  white  as  milk, 

As  bitter  as  gall,  a  thick  green  wall, 

And  a  green  coat  covers  me  all.     (A  walnut.) 

Make  three  fourths  of  a  cross,  and  a  circle  complete; 
And  let  two  semicircles  on  a  perpendicular  meet; 
Next  add  a  triangle  that  stands  on  two  feet; 
Next  two  semicircles,  and  a  circle  complete.    (TOBACCO.) 

Flour  of  England,  fruit  of  Spain, 

Met  together  in  a  shower  of  rain; 

Put  in  a  bag  tied  round  with  a  string, 

If  you'll  tell  me  this  riddle,  I'll  give  you  a  ring. 

(A  plum-pudding.) 

In  marble  walls  as  white  as  milk, 
Lined  with  a  skin  as  soft  as  silk; 


36 


IN  THE  NURSERY 


Within  a  fountain  crystal  clear, 

A  golden  apple  doth  appear. 

No  doors  there  are  to  this  stronghold, 

Yet  thieves  break  in  and  steal  the  gold.     (An  egg.) 

Little  Nanny  Etticoat, 

In  a  white  petticoat, 

And  a  red  nose; 

The  longer  she  stands, 

The  shorter  she  grows.     (A  candle.) 

Long  legs,  crooked  thighs, 

Little  head  and  no  eyes.     (A  pair  of  tongs.) 

Thirty  white  horses  upon  a  red  hill, 

Now  they  tramp,  now  they  champ,  now  they  stand  still. 

(The  teeth.) 

Formed  long  ago,  yet  made  to-day, 

Employed  while  others  sleep; 
What  few  would  like  to  give  away, 

Nor  any  wish  to  keep.    (A  bed.) 

Elizabeth,  Lizzy,  Betsy  and  Bess, 
All  went  together  to  seek  a  bird's  nest; 
They  found  a  nest  with  five  eggs  in  it; 
They  each  took  one  and  left  four  in  it. 

Thomas  a  Tattamus  took  two  T's, 

To  tie  two  tups  to  two  tall  trees, 

To  frighten  the  terrible  Thomas  a  Tattamus! 

Tell  me  how  many  T's  there  are  in  all  THAT! 

Old  Mother  Twitchett  had  but  one  eye, 

And  a  long  tail  which  she  let  fly; 

And  every  time  she  went  over  a  ijap 

She  left  a  bit  of  her  tail  in  a  trap.     (A  needle  and  thread.) 


IN  THE  NURSERY  %         37 

As  I  went  through  a  garden  gap, 

Who  should  I  meet  but  Dick  Red-Cap! 

A  stick  in  his  hand,  a  stone  in  his  throat, 

If  you'll  tell  me  this  riddle,  I'll  give  you  a  groat.  (A  cherry.) 

Humpty  Dumpty  sat  on  a  wall, 

Humpty  Dumpty  had  a  great  fall; 

All  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men 

Cannot  put  Humpty  Dumpty  together  again.     (An  egg.) 

As  I  was  going  to  St.  Ives, 

I  met  a  man  with  seven  wives, 

Every  wife  had  seven  sacks, 

Every  sack  had  seven  cats, 

Every  cat  had  seven  kits — 

Kits,  cats,  sacks,  and  wives, 

How  many  were  going  to  St.  Ives?    (One.) 

Two  legs  sat  upon  three  legs, 
With  one  leg  in  his  lap; 
In  comes  four  legs 
And  runs  away  with  one  leg; 
Up  jumps  two  legs, 
Catches  up  three  legs, 
Throws  it  after  four  legs, 
And  makes  him  drop  one  leg. 

(A  man,  a  stool,  a  leg  of  mutton,  and  a  dog.) 


OLD  SUPERSTITIONS 

See  a  pin  and  pick  it  up, 

All  the  day  you'll  have  good  luck. 

See  a  pin  and  let  it  lay, 

Bad  luck  you  will  have  all  day. 

Monday's  child  is  fair  of  face, 
Tuesday's  child  is  full  of  grace, 


38  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Wednesday's  child  is  full  of  woe, 
Thursday's  child  has  far  to  go, 
Friday's  child  is  loving  and  giving, 
Saturday's  child  works  hard  for  its  living, 
And  a  child  that  is  born  on  the  Sabbath  day 
Is  fair  and  wise  and  good  and  gay. 

The  maid  who,  on  the  first  of  May, 
Goes  to  the  fields  at  break  of  day, 
And  washes  in  dew  from  the  hawthorn  tree, 
Will  ever  after  handsome  be. 

Friday  night's  dream  on  a  Saturday  told, 
Is  sure  to  come  true,  be  it  never  so  old. 

Sneeze  on  a  Monday,  you  sneeze  for  danger; 
Sneeze  on  a  Tuesday,  you'll  kiss  a  stranger; 
Sneeze  on  a  Wednesday,  you  sneeze  for  a  letter; 
Sneeze  on  a  Thursday,  for  something  better; 
Sneeze  on  a  Friday,  you  sneeze  for  sorrow; 
Sneeze  on  a  Saturday,  your  sweetheart  to-morrow; 
Sneeze  on  a  Sunday,  your  safety  seek, 
For  you  will  have  trouble  the  whole  of  the  week. 


WEATHER  WISDOM 

A  sunshiny  shower 
Won't  last  half  an  hour. 

Rain  before  seven, 
Fair  by  eleven. 

The  South  wind  brings  wet  weather, 
The  North  wind  wet  and  cold  together; 
The  West  wind  always  brings  us  rain, 
The  East  wind  blows  it  back  again. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  39 

March  winds  and  April  showers 
Bring  forth  May  flowers. 

Evening  red  and  morning  gray 
Set  the  traveler  on  his  way; 
But  evening  gray  and  morning  red 
Bring  the  rain  upon  his  head. 

Rainbow  at  night  is  the  sailor's  delight; 
Rainbow  at  morning,  sailors,  take  warning. 

If  bees  stay  at  home, 
Rain  will  soon  come; 
If  they  fly  away, 
Fine  will  be  the  day. 

When  clouds  appear  like  rocks  and  towers, 
The  earth's  refreshed  by  frequent  showers. 


BEDTIME 

'Tis  bedtime;  say  your  hymn,  and  bid  "Good-night; 
God  bless  Mamma,  Papa,  and  dear  ones  all." 
Your  half-shut  eyes  beneath  your  eyelids  fail, 
Another  minute,  you  will  shut  them  quite. 
Yes,  I  will  carry  you,  put  out  the  light, 
And  tuck  you  up,  although  you  are  so  tall! 
What  will  you  give  me,  Sleepy  One,  and  call 
My  wages,  if  I  settle  you  all  right  ? 

I  laid  her  golden  curls  upon  my  arm, 

I  drew  her  little  feet  within  my  hand, 

Her  rosy  palms  were  joined  in  trustful  bliss, 

Her  heart  next  mine  beat  gently,  soft  and  warm 

She  nestled  to  me,  and,  by  Love's  command, 

Paid  me  my  precious  wages — "Baby's  kiss." 

Francis  Robert  St.  Clair  Erskine 


40  IN  THE  NURSERY 


MY  BED  IS  A  BOAT 

My  bed  is  like  a  little  boat; 

Nurse  helps  me  in  when  1  embark; 
She  girds  me  in  my  sailor's  coat 

And  starts  me  in  the  dark. 

At  night,  I  go  on  board  and  say 

Good  night  to  all  my  friends  on  shore; 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  sail  away 
And  see  and  hear  no  more. 

And  sometimes  things  to  bed  I  take, 

As  prudent  sailors  have  to  do; 
Perhaps  a  slice  of  wedding-cake, 

Perhaps  a  toy  or  two. 

All  night  across  the  dark  we  steer; 

But  when  the  day  returns  at  last, 
Safe  in  my  room,  beside  the  pier, 

I  find  my  vessel  fast. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

ESCAPE  AT  BEDTIME 

The  lights  from  the  parlor  and  kitchen  shone  out 

Through  the  blinds  and  the  windows  and  bars; 
And  high  overhead  and  all  moving  about, 

There  were  thousands  of  millions  of  stars. 
There  ne'er  were  such  thousands  of  leaves  on  a  tree, 

Nor  of  people  in  church  or  the  Park, 
As  the  crowds  of  the  stars  that  looked  down  upon  me, 

And  that  glittered  and  winked  in  the  dark. 

The  Dog,  and  the  Plow,  and  the  Hunter,  and  all, 

And  the  star  of  the  sailor,  and  Mars, 
These  shone  in  the  sky,  and  the  pail  by  the  wall 

Would  be  half  full  of  water  and  stars. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  41 

They  saw  me  at  last,  and  they  chased  me  with  cries, 
And  they  soon  had  me  packed  into  bed; 

But  the  glory  kept  shining  and  bright  in  my  eyes, 
And  the  stars  going  round  in  my  head. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


MINNIE  AND  WINNIE 

Minnie  and  Winnie  slept  in  a  shell. 
Sleep,  little  ladies!    And  they  slept  well. 

Pink  was  the  shell  within,  silver  without; 
Sounds  of  the  great  sea  wandered  about. 

Sleep,  little  ladies!    Wake  not  soon! 
Echo  on  echo  dies  to  the  moon. 

Two  bright  stars  peeped  into  the  shell. 
"What  are  they  dreaming  of?    Who  can  tell?" 

Started  a  green  linnet  out  of  the  croft; 
Wake,  little  ladies!    The  sun  is  aloft. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


"WHAT  DOES  LITTLE  BIRDIE  SAY?" 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day? 


42  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger, 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


HUSH-A-BYES 

Hush-a-bye,  baby,  on  the  tree-top, 
When  the  wind  blows,  the  cradle  will  rock, 
When  the  bough  breaks,  the  cradle  will  fall, 
Down  will  come  baby,  bough,  cradle,  and  all. 

Bye,  baby  bunting,  daddy's  gone  a-hunting 

To  get  a  little  rabbit-skin  to  wrap  his  baby  bunting  in. 

Rock-a-bye,  baby,  thy  cradle  is  green; 

Father's  a  nobleman,  mother's  a  Queen, 

Betty's  a  lady  and  wears  a  gold  ring, 

And  Johnny's  a  drummer  and  drums  for  the  King. 


TROT,  TROT! 

Every  evening  Baby  goes 

Trot,  trot,  to  town, 
Across  the  river,  through  the  fields 

Up  hill  and  down. 

Trot,  trot,  the  Baby  goes, 

Up  hill  and  down, 
To  buy  a  feather  for  her  hat, 

To  buy  a  woolen  gown. 


IN  THE  NURSERY  43 

Trot,  trot,  the  Baby  goes; 

The  birds  fly  down,  alack! 
"You  cannot  have  our  feathers,  dear," 

They  say,  "so  please  trot  back.'* 

Trot,  trot,  the  Baby  goes; 

The  lambs  come  bleating  near. 
"You  cannot  have  our  wool,"  they  say, 

"  But  we  are  sorry,  dear." 

Trot,  trot,  the  Baby  goes, 

Trot,  trot,  to  town; 
She  buys  a  red  rose  for  her  hat, 

She  buys  a  cotton  gown. 

Mary  F.  Butts 


BED-TIME  SONG 

Sleep,  my  baby,  while  I  sing 
Bed-time  news  of  everything. 
Chickens  run  to  mother  hen; 
Piggy  curls  up  in  the  pen. 
In  the  field,  all  tired  with  play, 
Quiet  now  the  lambkins  stay. 
Kittens  cuddle  in  a  heap — 
Baby,  too,  must  go  to  sleep! 

Sleep,  my  baby,  while  I  sing 
Bed-time  news  of  everything. 
Now  the  cows  from  pasture  come; 
Bees  fly  home  with  drowsy  hum. 
Little  birds  are  in  the  nest, 
Under  mother-bird's  soft  breast. 
Over  all  soft  shadows  creep — 
Baby  now  must  go  to  sleep. 


44  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Sleep,  my  baby,  while  I  sing 
Bed-time  news  of  everything. 
Sleepy  flowers  seem  to  nod, 
Drooping  toward  the  dewy  sod; 
While  the  big  sun's  fading  light 
Bids  my  baby  dear  good-night. 
Mother  loving  watch  will  keep; 
Baby  now  must  go  to  sleep. 

Emilie  Poulsson 

GOOD-NIGHT 

Little  baby,  lay  your  head 

On  your  pretty  cradle-bed; 

Shut  your  eye-peeps,  now  the  day 

And  the  light  are  gone  away; 

All  the  clothes  are  tucked  in  tight; 

Little  baby  dear,  good-night. 

Yes,  my  darling,  well  I  know 
How  the  bitter  wind  doth  blow; 
And  the  winter's  snow  and  rain 
Patter  on  the  window-pane: 
But  they  cannot  come  in  here, 
To  my  little  baby  dear; 

For  the  window  shutteth  fast, 
Till  the  stormy  night  is  past; 
And  the  curtains  warm  are  spread 
Round  about  her  cradle-bed: 
So  till  morning  shineth  bright, 
Little  baby  dear,  good-night. 

Jane  Taylor 


IN  THE  NURSERY  45 


CRADLE  SONG 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night; 
Sleep,  sleep;  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

O  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  night  shall  break. 

William  Blake 

LULLABY 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 


46  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

Alfred  Tennyson 

HOLY  INNOCENTS 

Sleep,  little  Baby,  sleep; 

The  holy  Angels  love  thee, 
And  guard  thy  bed,  and  keep 

A  blessed  watch  above  thee. 
No  spirit  can  come  near 

Nor  evil  beast  to  harm  thee: 
Sleep,  Sweet,  devoid  of  fear 

Where  nothing  need  alarm  thee. 

The  Love  which  doth  not  sleep, 

The  eternal  Arms  surround  thee: 
The  Shepherd  of  the  sheep 

In  perfect  love  hath  found  thee. 
Sleep  through  the  holy  night, 

Christ-kept  from  snare  and  sorrow, 
Until  thou  wake  to  light 

And  love  and  warmth  to-morrow. 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti 

WHEN  THE  SLEEPY  MAN  COMES 

When  the  Sleepy  Man  comes  with  the  dust  on  his  eyes, 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary!) 
He  shuts  up  the  earth,  and  he  opens  the  skies. 

(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie!) 

He  smiles  through  his  fingers,  and  shuts  up  the  sun; 
(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary!) 


IN  THE  NURSERY  47 

The  stars  that  he  loves  he  lets  out  one  by  one. 
(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie!) 

He  comes  from  the  castles  of  Drowsy-boy  Town; 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary!) 
At  the  touch  of  his  hand  the  tired  eyelids  fall  down. 

(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie!) 

He  comes  with  a  murmur  of  dream  in  his  wings; 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary!) 
And  whispers  of  mermaids  and  wonderful  things. 

(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie!) 

Then  the  top  is  a  burden,  the  bugle  a  bane; 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary!) 
When  one  would  be  faring  down  Dream-a-way  Lane. 
(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie!) 

When  one  would  be  wending  in  Lullaby  Wherry, 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary!) 
To  Sleepy  Man's  Castle,  by  Comforting  Ferry. 

(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie!) 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


WILLIE  WINKIE 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town, 

Upstairs  and  doonstairs,  in  his  nicht-gown, 

Tirlin'  at  the  window,  cryin'  at  the  lock, 

"Are  the  weans  in  their  bed? — for  it's  noo  ten  o'clock." 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie!  are  ye  comin'  ben? 

The  cat's  singin'  gay  thrums  to  the  sleepin'  hen, 

The  doug's  speldered  on  the  floor,  and  disna  gie  a  cheep; 

But  here's  a  waukrife  laddie,  that  winna  fa'  asleep. 


48  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Onything  but  sleep,  ye  rogue! — glowrin'  like  the  moon, 
Rattlin'  in  an  airn  jug  wi'  an  airn  spoon, 
Rumblin',  tumblin'  roun'  about,  crawin'  like  a  cock, 
Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what — wauknin'  sleepin'  folk! 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie!  the  wean's  in  a  creel! 
Waumblin'  afF  a  bodie's  knee  like  a  vera  eel, 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's  lug,  and  ravellin'  a'  her  thrums: 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie! — See,  there  he  comes! 

William  Miller 

AULD  DADDY  DARKNESS 

Auld  Daddy  Darkness  creeps  frae  his  hole, 
Black  as  a  blackamoor,  blin'  as  a  mole: 
Stir  the  fire  till  it  lowes,  let  the  bairnie  sit, 
Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  no  wantit  yit. 

See  him  in  the  corners  hidin'  frae  the  licht, 
See  him  at  the  window  gloomin'  at  the  nicht; 
Turn  up  the  gas  licht,  close  the  shutters  a', 
An'  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  will  flee  far  awa'. 

Awa'  to  hide  the  birdie  within  its  cosy  nest, 
Awa'  to  lap  the  wee  flooers  on  their  mither's  breast, 
Awa'  to  loosen  Gaffer  Toil  frae  his  daily  ca', 
For  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  kindly  to  a'. 

He  comes  when  we're  weary  to  wean  's  frae  oor  waes, 
He  comes  when  the  bairnies  are  getting  aff  their  claes; 
'To  cover  them  sae  cosy,  an'  bring  bonnie  dreams, 
So  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  better  than  he  seems. 

Steek  yer  een,  my  wee  tot,  ye'll  see  Daddy  then; 
He's  in  below  the  bed  claes,  to  cuddle  ye  he's  fain; 
Noo  nestle  to  his  bosie,  sleep  and  divam  yer  fill, 
Till  Wee  Davie  Daylicht  comes  keekin'  owre  the  hill. 

James  Ferguson 


IN  THE  NURSERY  49 


THE  SANDMAN 

The  rosy  clouds  float  overhead, 

The  sun  is  going  down; 
And  now  the  sandman's  gentle  tread 

Comes  stealing  through  the  town. 
"White  sand,  white  sand,"  he  softly  cries, 

And  as  he  shakes  his  hand, 
Straightway  there  lies  on  babies'  eyes 

His  gift  of  shining  sand. 
Blue  eyes,  gray  eyes,  black  eyes,  and  brown, 

As  shuts  the  rose,  they  softly  close, 
When  he  goes  through  the  town. 

From  sunny  beaches  far  away — 

Yes,  in  another  land- 
He  gathers  up  at  break  of  day 

His  store  of  shining  sand. 
No  tempests  beat  that  shore  remote, 

No  ships  may  sail  that  way; 
His  little  boat  alone  may  float 

Within  that  lovely  bay. 
Blue  eyes,  gray  eyes,  black  eyes,  and  brown, 

As  shuts  the  rose,  they  softly  close, 
When  he  goes  through  the  town. 

He  smiles  to  see  the  eyelids  close 

Above  the  happy  eyes; 
And  every  child  right  well  he  knows, — 

Oh,  he  is  very  wise! 
But  if,  as  he  goes  through  the  land, 

A  naughty  baby  cries, 
His  other  hand  takes  dull  gray  sand 

To  close  the  wakeful  eyes. 


50  IN  THE  NURSERY 

Blue  eyes,  gray  eyes,  black  eyes,  and  brown, 

As  shuts  the  rose,  they  softly  close, 
When  he  goes  through  the  town. 

So  when  you  hear  the  sandman's  song 

Sound  through  the  twilight  .sweet, 
Be  sure  you  do  not  keep  him  long 

A-waiting  in  the  street. 
Lie  softly  down,  dear  little  head, 

Rest  quiet,  busy  hands, 
Till,  by  your  bed  his  good-night  said, 

He  strews  the  shining  sands. 
Blue  eyes,  gray  eyes,  black  eyes,  and  brown, 

As  shuts  the  rose,  they  softly  close, 
When  he  goes  through  the  town. 

Margaret  Thomson  Janvier 


-  THE  SUGAR-PLUM  TREE 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Sugar-Plum  Tree? 

'Tis  a  marvel  of  great  renown ! 
It  blooms  on  the  shore  of  the  Lollypop  sea 

In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  Town; 
The  fruit  that  it  bears  is  so  wondrously  sweet 

(As  those  who  have  tasted  it  say) 
That  good  little  children  have  only  to  eat 

Of  that  fruit  to  be  happy  next  day. 

When  you've  got  to  the  tree,  you  would  have  a  hard  time 

To  capture  the  fruit  which  I  sing; 
The  tree  is  so  tall  that  no  person  could  climb 

To  the  boughs  where  the  sugar-plums  swing! 
But  up  in  that  tree  sits  a  chocolate  cat, 

And  a  gingerbread  dog  prowls  below — 
And  this  is  the  way  you  contrive  to  get  at 

Those  sugar-plums  tempting  you  so: 


IN  THE  NURSERY  51 

You  say  but  the  word  to  that  gingerbread  dog 

And  he  barks  with  such  terrible  zest 
That  the  chocolate  cat  is  at  once  all  agog, 

As  her  swelling  proportions  attest. 
And  the  chocolate  cat  goes  cavorting  around 

From  this  leafy  limb  unto  that, 
And  the  sugar-plums  tumble,  of  course,  to  the  ground — 

Hurrah  for  that  chocolate  cat! 

There  are  marshmallows,  gumdrops,  and  peppermint  canes 

With  stripings  of  scarlet  or  gold, 
And  you  carry  away  of  the  treasure  that  rains, 

As  much  as  your  apron  can  hold! 
So  come,  little  child,  cuddle  closer  to  me 

In  your  dainty  white  nightcap  and  gown, 
And  I'll  rock  you  away  to  that  Sugar-Plum  Tree 

In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  Town. 

Eugene  Field 

WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN,  AND  NOD 

DUTCH    LULLABY 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe, — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring  fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we!" 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 
As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe; 


52  IN  THE  NURSERY 

And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew. 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring  fish 
That  lived  in  that  beautiful  sea — 
"Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish,— 
Never  afeard  are  we!" 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam, —     g| 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home: 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be; 
And  some  folk  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  in  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three: — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Eugene  Field 


HAPPY  THOUGHT 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

RULES  OF  BEHAVIOR 

Hearts,  like  doors,  will  ope  with  ease 

To  very,  very  little  keys, 

And  don't  forget  that  two  of  these 

Are  "I  thank  you"  and  "If  you  please." 

Come  when  you're  called, 

Do  what  you're  bid, 
Close  the  door  after  you, 

Never  be  chid. 

Seldom  "  can't," 

Seldom  "don't;" 
Never  "sha'n't," 

Never  "won't." 

If  "ifs"  and  "ands"  were  pots  and  pans, 
There  would  be  no  need  for  tinkers! 

A  man  of  words  and  not  of  deeds, 
Is  like  a  garden  full  of  weeds; 
For  when  the  weeds  begin  to  grow, 
Then  doth  the  garden  overflow. 

Tommy's  tears  and  Mary's  fears 
Will  make  them  old  before  their  years. 

For  every  evil  under  the  sun, 
There  is  a  remedy,  or  there  is  none; 
If  there  be  one,  try  to  find  it; 
If  there  be  none,  never  mind  it. 

55 


56  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

He  that  would  thrive  must  rise  at  five; 
He  that  hath  thriven  may  lie  till  seven. 

Cock  crows  in  the  morning  to  tell  us  to  rise, 

And  he  who  lies  late  will  never  be  wise; 

For  early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise 

Is  the  way  to  be  healthy  and  wealthy  and  wise. 

LITTLE  FRED 

When  little  Fred 

Was  called  to  bed, 
He  always  acted  right; 

He  kissed  Mama, 

And  then  Papa, 
And  wished  them  all  good-night. 

He  made  no  noise, 

Like  naughty  boys, 
But  gently  up  the  stairs 

Directly  went, 

When  he  was  sent, 
And  always  said  his  prayers. 


POLITENESS 

Good  little  boys  should  never  say 
"I  will,"  and  "Give  me  these;" 

O,  no!  that  never  is  the  way, 
But  "Mother,  if  you  please." 

And  "If  you  please,"  to  Sister  Ann 

Good  boys  to  say  are  ready; 
And,  "Yes,  sir,"  to  a  Gentleman, 

And,  "Yes,  ma'am,"  to  a  Lady. 

Elizabeth  Turner 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  57 


REBECCA'S  AFTER-THOUGHT 

Yesterday,  Rebecca  Mason, 

In  the  parlor  by  herself, 
Broke  a  handsome  china  basin, 

Placed  upon  the  mantel-shelf. 

Quite  alarmed,  she  thought  of  going 

Very  quietly  away, 
Not  a  single  person  knowing, 

Of  her  being  there  that  day. 

But  Rebecca  recollected 

She  was  taught  deceit  to  shun; 
And  the  moment  she  reflected, 

Told  her  mother  what  was  done; 

Who  commended  her  behavior, 
Loved  her  better,  and  forgave  her. 

Elizabeth  Turner 


KINDNESS  TO  ANIMALS 

Little  children,  never  give 
Pain  to  things  that  feel  and  live; 
Let  the  gentle  robin  come 
For  the  crumbs  you  save  at  home,- 
As  his  meat  you  throw  along 
He'll  repay  you  with  a  song; 
Never  hurt  the  timid  hare 
Peeping  from  her  green  grass  lair, 
Let  her  come  and  sport  and  play 
On  the  lawn  at  close  of  day; 
The  little  lark  goes  soaring  high 
To  the  bright  windows  of  the  sky, 


58  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

Singing  as  if  'twere  always  spring, 
And  fluttering  on  an  untired  wing, — • 
Oh!  let  him  sing  his  happy  song, 
Nor  do  these  gentle  creatures  wrong. 


A  RULE  FOR  BIRDS'  NESTERS 

The  robin  and  the  red-breast, 
The  sparrow  and  the  wren; 

If  ye  take  out  o'  their  nest, 
Ye'll  never  thrive  again! 

The  robin  and  the  red-breast, 
The  martin  and  the  swallow; 

If  ye  touch  one  o'  their  eggs, 
Bad  luck  will  surely  follow! 


"SING  ON,  BLITHE  BIRD" 

IVe  plucked  the  berry  from  the  bush, 

The  brown  nut  from  the  tree, 
But  heart  of  happy  little  bird 

Ne'er  broken  was  by  me. 
I  saw  them  in  their  curious  nests, 

Close  crouching,  slyly  peer 
With  their  wild  eyes,  like  glittering  beads, 

To  note  if  harm  were  near; 
I  passed  them  by,  and  blessed  them  all; 

I  felt  that  it  was  good 
To  leave  unmoved  the  creatures  small, 

Whose  home  was  in  the  wood. 

And  here,  even  now,  above  my  head, 

A  lusty  rogue  doth  sing; 
He  pecks  his  swelling  breast  and  neck, 

And  trims  his  little  wing. 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  59 

He  will  not  fly;  he  knows  full  well, 

While  chirping  on  that  spray, 
I  would  not  harm  him  for  the  world, 

Or  interrupt  his  lay. 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  blithe  bird!  and  fill 

My  heart  with  summer  gladness; 
It  has  been  aching  many  a  day, 

With  measures  full  of  sadness! 

William  Motherwell 

"I  LIKE  LITTLE  PUSSY" 

I  like  little  Pussy, 

Her  coat  is  so  warm; 
And  if  I  don't  hurt  her 

She'll  do  me  no  harm. 
So  I'll  not  pull  her  tail, 

Nor  drive  her  away, 
But  Pussy  and  I 

Very  gently  will  play; 
She  shall  sit  by  my  side, 

And  I'll  give  her  some  food; 
And  she'll  love  me  because 

I  am  gentle  and  good. 

I'll  pat  little  Pussy, 

And  then  she  will  purr, 
And  thus  show  her  thanks 

For  my  kindness  to  her; 
I'll  not  pinch  her  ears, 

Nor  tread  on  her  paw, 
Lest  I  should  provoke  her 

To  use  her  sharp  claw; 
I  never  will  vex  her, 

Nor  make  her  displeased, 
For  Pussy  can't  bear 

To  be  worried  or  teased.         Jane  Taylor 


60  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 


THE  LITTLE  GENTLEMAN 

Take  your  meals,  my  little  man, 

Always  like  a  gentleman; 

Wash  your  face  and  hands  with  care, 

Change  your  shoes,  and  brush  your  hair; 

Then  so  fresh,  and  clean  and  neat, 

Come  and  take  your  proper  seat; 

Do  not  loiter  and  be  late, 

Making  other  people  wait; 

Do  not  rudely  point  or  touch: 

Do  not  eat  and  drink  too  much: 

Finish  what  you  have,  before 

You  even  ask,  or  send  for  more: 

Never  crumble  or  destroy 

Food  that  others  might  enjoy; 

They  who  idly  crumbs  will  waste 

Often  want  a  loaf  to  taste! 

Never  spill  your  milk  or  tea, 

Never  rude  or  noisy  be; 

Never  choose  the  daintiest  food, 

Be  content  with  what  is  good: 

Seek  in  all  things  that  you  can 

To  be  a  little  gentleman. 


WHOLE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

A  child  should  always  say  what's  true 
And  speak  when  he  is  spoken  to, 
And  behave  mannerly  at  table; 
At  least  as  far  as  he  is  able. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN       61 


THE  CRUST  OF  BREAD 

I  must  not  throw  upon  the  floor 

The  crust  I  cannot  eat; 
For  many  little  hungry  ones 

Would  think  it  quite  a  treat. 

My  parents  labor  very  hard 
To  get  me  wholesome  food; 

Then  I  must  never  waste  a  bit 
That  would  do  others  good. 

For  wilful  waste  makes  woeful  want, 

And  I  may  live  to  say, 
Oh!  how  I  wish  I  had  the  bread 

That  once  I  threw  away! 


THE  PLUM-CAKE 

"Oh!  I've  got  a  plum-cake,  and  a  fine  feast  I'll  make, 

So  nice  to  have  all  to  myself! 
I  can  eat  every  day  while  the  rest  are  at  play, 

And  then  put  it  by  on  the  shelf." 

Thus  said  little  John,  and  how  soon  it  was  gone! 

For  with  zeal  to  his  cake  he  applied, 
While  fingers  and  thumbs,  for  the  sweetmeats  and  plums, 

Were  hunting  and  digging  beside. 

But,  woeful  to  tell,  a  misfortune  befell, 

That  shortly  his  folly  revealed: 
After  eating  his  fill,  he  was  taken  so  ill, 

That  the  cause  could  not  now  be  concealed. 

As  he  grew  worse  and  worse,  the  doctor  and  nurse 
To  cure  his  disorder  were  sent; 


62  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

And  rightly,  you'll  think,  he  had  physic  to  drink, 
Which  made  him  sincerely  repent. 

And  while  on  the  bed  he  rolled  his  hot  head, 

Impatient  with  sickness  and  pain, 
He  could  not  but  take  this  reproof  from  his  cake: 

"Do  not  be  such  a  glutton  again." 

Ann  Taylor 


THE  STORY  OF  AUGUSTUS,  WHO  WOULD  NOT 
HAVE  ANY  SOUP 

Augustus  was  a  chubby  lad; 
Fat,  ruddy  cheeks  Augustus  had; 
And  everybody  saw  with  joy 
The  plump  and  hearty,  healthy  boy. 
He  ate  and  drank  as  he  was  told, 
And  never  let  his  soup  get  cold. 

But  one  day,  one  cold  winter's  day, 

He  screamed  out — "Take  the  soup  away! 

0  take  the  nasty  soup  away! 

1  won't  have  any  soup  to-day." 

Next  day  begins  his  tale  of  woes; 
Quite  lank  and  lean  Augustus  grows. 
Yet,  though  he  feels  so  weak  and  ill, 
The  naughty  fellow  cries  out  still— 
"Not  any  soup  for  me,  I  say: 

0  take  the  nasty  soup  away! 

1  won't  have  any  soup  to-day." 

The  third  day  comes;  0  what  a  sin! 
To  make  himself  so  pale  and  thin. 
Yet,  when  the  soup  is  put  on  table, 
He  screams,  as  loud  as  he  is  able, — 


THE  DUTY  Op  CHILDREN  63 

"Not  any  soup  for  me,  I  say: 

0  take  the  nasty  soup  away! 

1  won't  have  any  soup  to-day." 

Look  at  him,  now  the  fourth  day's  come! 
He  scarcely  weighs  a  sugar-plum; 
He's  like  a  little  bit  of  thread, 
And  on  the  fifth  day,  he  was — dead! 

From  the  German  of  Heinrich  Hoffman 


"HOW  DOTH  THE  LITTLE  BUSY  BEE" 

How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 

Improve  each  shining  hour, 
And  gather  honey  all  the  day 

From  every  opening  flower! 

How  skilfully  she  builds  her  cell! 

How  neat  she  spreads  the  wax! 
And  labors  hard  to  store  it  well 

With  the  sweet  food  she  makes. 

In  works  of  labor  or  of  skill, 

I  would  be  busy  too; 
For  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 

For  idle  hands  to  do. 

In  books,  or  work,  or  healthful  play, 

Let  my  first  years  be  passed, 
That  I  may  give  for  every  day 

Some  good  account  at  last. 

Isaac  Watts 


64       THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 


THE  ANT  AND  THE  CRICKET 

A  silly  young  cricket,  accustomed  to  sing 

Through  the  warm,  sunny  months  of  gay  summer  and 

spring, 

Began  to  complain,  when  he  found  that  at  home 
His  cupboard  was  empty  and  winter  was  come. 

Not  a  crumb  to  be  found 

On  the  snow-covered  ground; 

Not  a  flower  could  he  see, 

Not  a  leaf  on  a  tree: 
"Oh,  what  will  become,"  says  the  cricket,  "of  me?" 

At  last  by  starvation  and  famine  made  bold, 

All  dripping  with  wet  and  all  trembling  with  cold, 

Away  he  set  off  to  a  miserly  ant, 

To  see  if,  to  keep  him  alive,  he  would  grant 

Him  shelter  from  rain: 

A  mouthful  of  grain 

He  wished  only  to  borrow, 

He'd  repay  it  to-morrow: 
If  not,  he  must  die  of  starvation  and  sorrow. 

Says  the  ant  to  the  cricket,  "I'm  your  servant  and  friend* 

But  we  ants  never  borrow,  we  ants  never  lend; 

But  tell  me,  dear  sir,  did  you  lay  nothing  by 

When  the  weather  was  warm?"  Said  the  cricket,  "Not  I. 

My  heart  was  so  light 

That  I  sang  day  and  night, 

For  all  nature  looked  gay." 

"You  sang,  sir,  you  say? 
Go  then,"  said  the  ant,  "and  dance  winter  away." 

Thus  ending,  he  hastily  lifted  the  wicket 

And  out  of  the  door  turned  the  poor  little  cricket. 

Though  this  is  a  fable,  the  moral  is  good : 

If  you  live  without  work,  you  must  live  without  food. 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  65 


THE  SLUGGARD 

'Tis  the  voice  of  a  sluggard;  I  heard  him  complain, 
"You  have  waked  me  too  soon;  I  must  slumber  again;" 
As  the  door  on  its  hinges,  so  he  on  his  bed 
Turns  his  sides,  and  his  shoulders,  and  his  heavy  head. 

"A  little  more  sleep,  and  a  little  more  slumber;" 

Thus  he  wastes  half  his  days,  and  his  hours  without  num- 

her; 

And  when  he  gets  up,  he  sits  folding  his  hands 
Or  walks  about  sauntering,  or  trifling  he  stands. 

I  passed  by  his  garden,  and  saw  the  wild  brier, 
The  thorn  and  the  thistle  grow  broader  and  higher; 
The  clothes  that  hang  on  him  are  turning  to  rags; 
And  his  money  still  wastes  till  he  starves  or  he  begs. 

I  made  him  a  visit,  still  hoping  to  find 
That  he  took  better  care  for  improving  his  mind; 
He  told  me  his  dreams,  talked  of  eating  and  drinking, 
But  he  scarce  reads  his  Bible,  and  never  loves  thinking. 

Said  I  then  to  my  heart,  "Here's  a  lesson  for  me; 
That  man's  but  a  picture  of  what  I  might  be; 
But  thanks  to  my  friends  for  their  care  in  my  breeding, 
Who  taught  me  betimes  to  love  working  and  reading." 

Isaac  Watts 

THE  BUTTERFLY 

The  butterfly,  an  idle  thing, 

Nor  honey  makes,  nor  yet  can  sing, 

As  do  the  bee  and  bird; 
Nor  does  it,  like  the  prudent  ant, 
Lay  up  the  grain  for  times  of  want, 

A  wise  and  cautious  hoard. 


66  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

My  youth  is  but  a  summer's  day: 
Then  like  the  bee  and  ant  I'll  lay 

A  store  of  learning  by; 
And  though  from  flower  to  flower  I  rove, 
My  stock  of  wisdom  I'll  improve, 

Nor  be  a  butterfly. 

Adelaide  O'Keefe 


THE  BUTTERFLY  AND  THE  BEE 

Methought  I  heard  a  butterfly 

Say  to  a  laboring  bee, 
"Thou  hast  no  colors  of  the  sky 

On  painted  wings  like  me." 

"Poor  child  of  vanity!  those  dyes, 

And  colors  bright  and  rare," 
With  mild  reproof,  the  bee  replies, 

"Are  all  beneath  my  care. 

"Content  I  toil  from  morn  till  eve, 

And,  scorning  idleness, 
To  tribes  of  gaudy  sloth  I  leave 

The  vanity  of  dress." 

William  Lisle  Bowles 


THE  STORY  OF  LITTLE  SUCK-A-THUMB 

One  day,  mamma  said:  "Conrad  dear, 
I  must  go  out  and  leave  you  here. 
But  mind  now,  Conrad,  what  I  say, 
Don't  suck  your  thumb  while  I'm  away. 
The  great  tall  tailor  always  comes 
To  little  boys  that  suck  their  thumbs; 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  67 

And  ere  they  dream  what  he's  about, 
He  takes  his  great  sharp  scissors  out 
And  cuts  their  thumbs  clean  off, — and  then, 
You  know,  they  never  grow  again." 

Mamma  had  scarcely  turned  her  back, 
The  thumb  was  in,  alack!  alack! 
The  door  flew  open,  in  he  ran, 
The  great,  long,  red-legged  scissors-man. 
Oh,  children,  see!  the  tailor's  come 
And  caught  our  little  Suck-a-Thumb. 
Snip!  snap!  snip!  the  scissors  go; 
And  Conrad  cries  out— "Oh!  oh!  oh!" 

Snip!  snap!  snip!    They  go  so  fast, 
That  both  his  thumbs  are  off  at  last. 
Mamma  comes  home;  there  Conrad  stands, 
And  looks  quite  sad,  and  sho\vs  his  hands; — 
"Ah!"  said  mamma,  "I  knew  he'd  come 
To  naughty  little  Suck-a-Thumb." 

From  the  German  of  Heinrich  Hoffman 


DIRTY  JIM 

There  was  one  little  Jim, 
'Tis  reported  of  him, 

And  must  be  to  his  lasting  disgrace 
That  he  never  was  seen 
With  hands  at  all  clean, 

Nor  yet  ever  clean  was  his  face. 

His  friends  were  much  hurt 
To  see  so  much  dirt, 

And  often  they  made  him  quite  clean; 
But  all  was  in  vain, 
He  got  dirty  again, 

And  not  at  all  fit  to  be  seen. 


68  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

It  gave  him  no  pain 
To  hear  them  complain, 

Nor  his  own  dirty  clothes  to  survey; 
His  indolent  mind 
No  pleasure  could  find 

In  tidy  and  wholesome  array. 

The  idle  and  bad, 
Like  this  little  lad, 

May  love  dirty  ways,  to  be  sure; 
But  good  boys  are  seen, 
To  be  decent  and  clean, 

Although  they  are  ever  so  poor. 


Jane  Taylor 


THE  PIN 

"Dear  me!  what  signifies  a  pin, 
Wedged  in  a  rotten  board? 

I'm  certain  that  I  won't  begin, 
At  ten  years  old,  to  hoard; 

I  never  will  be  called  a  miser, 

That  I'm  determined,"  said  Eliza. 

So  onward  tripped  the  little  maid, 

And  left  the  pin  behind, 
Which  very  snug  and  quiet  lay, 

To  its  hard  fate  resigned; 
Nor  did  she  think  (a  careless  chit) 
'Twas  worth  her  while  to  stoop  for  it. 

Next  day  a  party  was  to  ride, 

To  see  an  air  balloon; 
And  all  the  company  beside 

.Were  dressed  and  ready  soon; 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  69 

But  she  a  woeful  case  was  in, 
For  want  of  just  a  single  pin. 

In  vain  her  eager  eyes  she  brings, 

To  every  darksome  crack; 
There  was  not  one,  and  yet  her  things 

Were  dropping  off  her  back. 
She  cut  her  pincushion  in  two, 
But  no,  not  one  had  fallen  through. 

At  last,  as  hunting  on  the  floor, 

Over  a  crack  she  lay, 
The  carriage  rattled  to  the  door, 

Then  rattled  fast  away; 
But  poor  Eliza  was  not  in, 
For  want  of  just — a  single  pin! 

There's  hardly  anything  so  small, 

So  trifling  or  so  mean, 
That  we  may  never  want  at  all, 

For  service  unforeseen; 
And  wilful  waste,  depend  upon't, 
Brings,  almost  always,  woeful  want! 

Ann  Taylor 


JANE  AND  ELIZA 

There  were  two  little  girls,  neither  handsome  nor  plain, 
One's  name  was  Eliza,  the  other's  was  Jane; 
They  were  both  of  one  height,  as  I've  heard  people  say, 
And  both  of  one  age,  I  believe,  to  a  day. 

'Twas  fancied  by  some  who  but  slightly  had  seen  them, 
There  was  not  a  pin  to  be  chosen  between  them; 
But  no  one  for  long  in  this  notion  persisted, 
So  great  a  distinction  there  really  existed. 


70  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

Eliza  knew  well  that  she  could  not  be  pleasing, 
While  fretting  and  fuming,  while  sulking  or  teasing; 
And  therefore  in  company  artfully  tried, 
Not  to  break  her  bad  habits,  but  only  to  hide. 

So,  when  she  was  out,  with  much  labor  and  pain, 
She  contrived  to  look  almost  as  pleasant  as  Jane; 
But  then  you  might  see  that,  in  forcing  a  smile, 
Her  mouth  was  uneasy,  and  ached  all  the  while. 

And  in  spite  of  her  care  it  would  sometimes  befall 
That  some  cross  event  happened  to  ruin  it  all; 
And  because  it  might  chance  that  her  share  was  the  worst, 
Her  temper  broke  loose,  and  her  dimples  dispersed. 

But  Jane,  who  had  nothing  she  wanted  to  hide, 

And  therefore  these  troublesome  arts  never  tried, 

Had  none  of  the  care  and  fatigue  of  concealing, 

But  her  face  always  showed  what  her  bosom"  was  feeling. 

At  home  or  abroad  there  was  peace  in  her  smile, 
A  cheerful  good  nature  that  needed  no  guile. 
And  Eliza  worked  hard,  but  could  never  obtain 
The  affection  that  freely  was  given  to  Jane. 

Ann  Taylor 


MEDDLESOME  MATTY 

One  ugly  trick  has  often  spoiled 
The  sweetest  and  the  best; 

Matilda,  though  a  pleasant  child, 
One  ugly  trick  possessed, 

Which,  like  a  cloud  before  the  skies, 

Hid  all  her  better  qualities. 

Sometimes  she'd  lift  the  tea-pot  lid, 
To  peep  at  what  was  in  it; 


DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  71 

Or  tilt  the  kettle,  if  you  did 

But  turn  your  back  a  minute. 
In  vain  you  told  her  not  to  touch, 
Her  trick  of  meddling  grew  so  much. 

Her  grandmamma  went  out  one  day, 

And  by  mistake  she  laid 
Her  spectacles  and  snuff-box  gay 

Too  near  the  little  maid; 
"Ah!  well,"  thought  she,  "I'll  try  them  on, 
As  soon  as  grandmamma  is  gone." 

Forthwith  she  placed  upon  her  nose 

The  glasses  large  and  wide; 
And  looking  round,  as  I  suppose, 

The  snuff-box  too  she  spied: 
"Oh!  what  a  pretty  box  is  that; 
I'll  open  it,"  said  little  Matt. 

"I  know  that  grandmamma  would  say, 

'Don't  meddle  with  it,  dear'; 
But  then,  she's  far  enough  away, 

And  no  one  else  is  near: 
Besides,  what  can  there  be  amiss 
In  opening  such  a  box  as  this?" 

So  thumb  and  finger  went  to  work 

To  move  the  stubborn  lid, 
And  presently  a  mighty  jerk 

The  mighty  mischief  did; 
For  all  at  once,  ah !  woeful  case, 
The  snuff  came  pufHng  in  her  face. 

Poor  eyes,  and  nose,  and  mouth,  beside, 

A  dismal  sight  presented; 
In  vain,  as  bitterly  she  cried, 

Her  folly  she  repented. 


72  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

In  vain  she  ran  about  for  ease; 

She  could  do  nothing  now  but  sneeze. 

She  dashed  the  spectacles  away, 

To  wipe  her  tingling  eyes, 
And  as  in  twenty  bits  they  lay, 

Her  grandmamma  she  spies. 
"Heydey!  and  what's  the  matter  now?" 
Says  grandmamma,  with  lifted  brow. 

Matilda,  smarting  with  the  pain, 
And  tingling  still,  and  sore, 

Made  many  a  promise  to  refrain 
From  meddling  evermore. 

And  'tis  a  fact,  as  I  have  heard, 

She  ever  since  has  kept  her  word. 


Ann  Tayler 


THINK  BEFORE  YOU  ACT 

Elizabeth  her  frock  has  torn, 
And  pricked  her  finger  too; 

Why  did  she  meddle  with  the  thorn, 
Until  its  use  she  knew? 


Because  Elizabeth  will  touch 
Whate'er  comes  in  her  way; 

I've  seen  her  suffer  quite  as  much, 
A  dozen  times  a  day. 


Yet,  though  so  oft  she  feels  the  pain, 

The  habit  is  so  strong, 
That  all  her  caution  is  in  vain, 

And  seldom  heeded  long. 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  73 

I  should  not  wonder  if,  at  last, 

She  meet  some  dreadful  fate; 
And  then,  perhaps,  regret  the  past, 

When  sorrow  comes  too  late. 

Mary  Elliott 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  WOLF 

A  little  Boy  was  set  to  keep 

A  little  flock  of  goats  or  sheep; 

He  thought  the  task  too  solitary, 

And  took  a  strange  perverse  vagary: 

To  call  the  people  out  of  fun, 

To  see  them  leave  their  work  and  run, 

He  cried  and  screamed  with  all  his  might, — 

"Wolf!  wolf!"  in  a  pretended  fright. 

Some  people,  working  at  a  distance, 

Came  running  in  to  his  assistance. 

They  searched  the  fields  and  bushes  round: 

The  Wolf  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

The  Boy,  delighted  with  his  game, 

A  few  days  after  did  the  same, 

And  once  again  the  people  came. 

The  trick  was  many  times  repeated: 

At  last  they  found  that  they  were  cheated. 

One  day  the  Wolf  appeared  in  sight, 

The  Boy  was  in  a  real  fright, 

He  cried,  "Wolf!  wolf!" — the  neighbors  heard, 

But  not  a  single  creature  stirred. 

"We  need  not  go  from  our  employ, — 

'Tis  nothing  but  that  idle  boy." 

The  little  Boy  cried  out  again, 

"Help,  help!  the  Wolf!"  he  cried  in  vain. 

At  last  his  master  came  to  beat  him. 

He  came  too  late,  the  Wolf  had  eat  him. 


74  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

This  shows  the  bad  effect  of  lying, 

And  likewise  of  continual  crying. 

If  I  had  heard  you  scream  and  roar, 

For  nothing,  twenty  times  before, 

Although  you  might  have  broke  your  arm, 

Or  met  with  any  serious  harm, 

Your  cries  could  give  me  no  alarm; 

They  would  not  make  me  move  the  faster, 

Nor  apprehend  the  least  disaster; 

I  should  be  sorry  when  I  came, 

But  you  yourself  would  be  to  blame. 

John  Hookkam  Frere 


CONTENTED  JOHN 

One  honest  John  Tomkins,  a  hedger  and  ditcher, 
Although  he  was  poor,  did  not  want  to  be  richer; 
For  all  such  vain  wishes  in  him  were  prevented 
By  a  fortunate  habit  of  being  contented. 

Though  cold  were  the  weather,  or  dear  were  the  food, 
John  never  was  found  in  a  murmuring  mood; 
For  this  he  was  constantly  heard  to  declare, — 
What  he  could  not  prevent  he  would  cheerfully  bear. 

"For  why  should  I  grumble  and  murmur?"  he  said; 
"If  I  cannot  get  meat,  I'll  be  thankful  for  bread; 
And,  though  fretting  may  make  my  calamities  deeper, 
It  can  never  cause  bread  and  cheese  to  be  cheaper." 

If  John  was  afflicted  with  sickness  or  pain, 
He  wished  himself  better,  but  did  not  complain, 
Nor  lie  down  to  fret  in  despondence  and  sorrow, 
But  said  that  he  hoped  to  be  better  to-morrow. 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  75 

If  any  one  wronged  him  or  treated  him  ill, 

Why,  John  was  good-natured  and  sociable  still; 

For  he  said  that  revenging  the  injury  done 

Would  be  making  two  rogues  where  there  need  be  but  one. 

And  thus  honest  John,  though  his  station  was  humble, 
Passed  through  this  sad  world  without  even  a  grumble; 
And  I  wish  that  some  folks,  who  are  greater  and  richer, 
Would  copy  John  Tomkins,  the  hedger  and  ditcher. 

Jane  Taylor 


GOOD  AND  BAD  CHILDREN 

Children,  you  are  very  little, 
And  your  bones  are  very  brittle; 
If  you  would  grow  great  and  stately, 
You  must  try  to  walk  sedately. 

You  must  still  be  bright  and  quiet, 
And  content  with  simple  diet; 
And  remain,  through  all  bewild'ring, 
Innocent  and  honest  children. 

Happy  hearts  and  happy  faces, 
Happy  play  in  grassy  places — 
That  was  how,  in  ancient  ages, 
Children  grew  to  kings  and  sages. 

But  the  unkind  and  the  unruly, 
And  the  sort  who  eat  unduly, 
They  must  never  hope  for  glory — 
Theirs  is  quite  a  different  story! 

Cruel  children,  crying  babies, 
All  grow  up  as  geese  and  gabies, 
Hated,  as  their  age  increases, 
By  their  nephews  and  their  nieces. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


76  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 


THE  LOVABLE  CHILD 

Frisky  as  a  lambkin, 

Busy  as  a  bee — 
That's  the  kind  of  little  girl 

People  like  to  see. 

Modest  as  a  violet, 

As  a  rosebud  sweet— 
That's  the  kind  of  little  girl 

People  like  to  meet. 

Bright  as  is  a  diamond, 

Pure  as  any  pearl — 
Everyone  rejoices  in 

Such  a  little  girl. 

Happy  as  a  robin, 

Gentle  as  a  dove— 
That's  the  kind  of  little  girl 

Everyone  will  love. 

Fly  away  and  seek  her, 

Little  song  of  mine, 
For  I  choose  that  very  girl 

As  my  Valentine. 

Emilie  Pott  Is  son 


"THERE  WAS  A  LITTLE  GIRL" 

There  was  a  little  girl,  who  had  a  little  curl 
Right  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead, 

And  when  she  was  good,  she  was  very,  very  good, 
But  when  she  was  bad  she  was  horrid. 

She  stood  on  her  head,  on  her  little  trundle-bed, 
With  nobody  by  for  to  hinder; 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  77 

She  screamed  and  she  squalled,  she  yelled  and  she  bawled, 
And  drummed  her  little  heels  against  the  winder. 

Her  mother  heard  the  noise,  and  thought  it  was  the  boys 

Playing  in  the  empty  attic, 
She  rushed  upstairs,  and  caught  her  unawares, 

And  spanked  her,  most  emphatic. 

A  NURSERY  SONG 

Oh,  Peterkin  Pout  and  Gregory  Grout 

Are  two  little  goblins  black. 
Full  oft  from  my  house  I've  driven  them  out, 

But  somehow  they  still  come  back. 
They  clamber  up  to  the  baby's  mouth, 

And  pull  the  corners  down; 
They  perch  aloft  on  the  baby's  brow, 

And  twist  it  into  a  frown. 

And  one  says  "Must!"  and  t'other  says  "Can't!" 
And  one  says  "Shall!"  and  t'other  says  "Shan't!" 
Oh,  Peterkin  Pout  and  Gregory  Grout, 
I  pray  you  now  from  my  house  keep  out! 

But  Samuel  Smile  and  Lemuel  Laugh 

Are  two  little  fairies  bright; 
They're  always  ready  for  fun  and  chaff, 

And  sunshine  is  their  delight. 

And  when  they  creep  into  Baby's  eyes, 

Why,  there  the  sunbeams  are; 
And  when  they  peep  through  her  rosy  lips, 

Her  laughter  rings  near  and  far. 

And  one  says  "Please!"  and  t'other  says  "Do!" 
And  both  together  say  "I  love  you!" 
So,  Lemuel  Laugh  and  Samuel  Smile, 
Come  in,  my  dears,  and  tarry  awhile! 

Laura  E.  Richards 


78  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 


ANGER 

Anger  in  its  time  and  place 
May  assume  a  kind  of  grace. 
It  must  have  some  reason  in  it, 
And  not  last  beyond  a  minute. 
If  to  further  lengths  it  go, 
It  does  into  malice  grow. 
'Tis  the  difference  that  we  see 
'Twixt  the  serpent  and  the  bee. 
If  the  latter  you  provoke, 
It  inflicts  a  hasty  stroke, 
Puts  you  to  some  little  pain, 
But  it  never  stings  again. 
Close  in  tufted  bush  or  brake 
Lurks  the  poison-swelled  snake 
Nursing  up  his  cherished  wrath; 
In  the  purlieus  of  his  path, 
In  the  cold,  or  in  the  warm, 
Mean  him  good,  or  mean  him  harm, 
Wheresoever  fate  may  bring  you, 
The  vile  snake  will  always  sting  you. 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb 


MY  LADY  WIND 

My  Lady  Wind,  my  Lady  Wind, 
Went  round  about  the  house  to  find 

A  chink  to  set  her  foot  in; 
She  tried  the  keyhole  in  the  door, 
She  tried  the  crevice  in  the  floor, 

And  drove  the  chimney  soot  in. 

And  then  one  night  when  it  was  dark 
She  blew  up  such  a  tiny  spark 
That  all  the  town  was  bothered; 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  79 

From  it  she  raised  such  flame  and  smoke 
That  many  in  great  terror  woke, 
And  many  more  were  smothered. 

And  thus  when  once,  my  little  dears, 
A  whisper  reaches  itching  ears — 

The  same  will  come,  you'll  find: 
Take  my  advice,  restrain  the  tongue, 
Remember  what  old  nurse  has  sung 

Of  busy  Lady  Wind. 


THE  BEST  FIRM 

A  pretty  good  firm  is  "  Watch  &  Waite," 
And  another  is  "Attit,  Early  &  Layte;" 
And  still  another  is  "Doo  &  Dairet;" 
But  the  best  is  probably  "Grinn  &  Barrett." 

Walter  G.  Doty 


A  BAKER'S  DUZZEN  UV  WIZE  SAWZ 

Them  ez  wants,  must  choose. 
Them  ez  hez,  must  lose. 
Them  ez  knows,  won't  blab. 
Them  ez  guesses,  will  gab. 
Them  ez  borrows,  sorrows. 
Them  ez  lends,  spends. 
Them  ez  gives,  lives. 
Them  ez  keeps  dark,  is  deep. 
Them  ez  kin  earn,  kin  keep. 
Them  ez  aims,  hits. 
Them  ez  hez,  gits. 
Them  ez  waits,  win. 
Them  ez  will,  kin. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill 


80  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 


"JOG  ON,  JOG  ON" 

Jog  on,  jog  on  the  foot-path  way 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a; 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 

William  Shakespeare 

THE  TUMBLE 

Tumble  down,  tumble  up,  never  mind  it,  my  sweet; 

No,  no,  never  beat  the  poor  floor: 

'Twas  your  fault,  that  could  not  stand  straight  on  your 
feet; 

Beat  yourself,  if  you  beat  any  more. 

Oh  dear!  what  a  noise:  will  a  noise  make  it  well? 

Will  crying  wash  bruises  away? 
Suppose  that  it  should  bleed  a  little  and  swell, 

'Twill  all  be  gone  down  in  a  day. 

That's  right,  be  a  man,  love,  and  dry  up  your  tears. 

Come,  smile,  and  I'll  give  you  a  kiss: 
If  you  live  in  the  world  but  a  very  few  years, 

You  must  bear  greater  troubles  than  this. 

Ah!  there's  the  last  tear  dropping  down  from  your  cheek! 

All  the  dimples  are  coming  again! 
And  your  round  little- face  looks  as  ruddy  and  meek 

As  a  rose  that's  been  washed  in  the  rain. 

Ann  Taylor 

LITTLE  THINGS 

Little  drops  of  water, 
Little  grains  of  sand, 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  81 

Make  the  mighty  ocean 
And  the  pleasant  land. 

So  the  little  moments, 

Humble  though  they  be, 
Make  the  mighty  ages 

Of  eternity. 

So  our  little  errors 

Lead  the  soul  away 
From  the  path  of  virtue, 

Far  in  sin  to  stray. 

Little  deeds  of  kindness, 

Little  words  of  love, 
Help  to  make  earth  happy 

Like  the  heaven  above. 

Julia  Fletcher  Carney 


A  TERNARIE  OF  LITTLES,  UPON  A  PIPKIN  OF 
JELLY  SENT  TO  A  LADY 

A  little  Saint  best  fits  a  little  Shrine, 

A  little  Prop  best  fits  a  little  Vine, 

As  my  small  Cruse  best  fits  my  little  Wine. 

A  little  Seed  best  fits  a  little  Soil, 
A  little  Trade  best  fits  a  little  Toil, 
As  my  small  Jar  best  fits  my  little  Oil. 

A  little  Bin  best  fits  a  little  Bread, 

A  little  Garland  fits  a  little  Head, 

As  my  small  Stuff  best  fits  my  little  Shed. 

A  little  Hearth  best  fits  a  little  Fire, 

A  little  Chapel  fits  a  little  Quire, 

As  my  small  Bell  best  fits  my  little  Spire. 


82  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

A  little  Stream  best  fits  a  little  Boat, 

A  little  Lead  best  fits  a  little  Float, 

As  my  small  Pipe  best  fits  my  little  Note. 

A  little  Meat  best  fits  a  little  Belly, 

As  sweetly,  lady,  give  me  leave  to  tell  ye, 

This  little  Pipkin  fits  this  little  Jelly. 

Robert  Herrick 

THE  VIOLET 

Down  in  a  green  and  shady  bed 

A  modest  violet  grew; 
Its  stalk  was  bent,  it  hung  its  head, 

As  if  to  hide  from  view. 

And  yet  it  was  a  lovely  flower, 

Its  color  bright  and  fair; 
It  might  have  graced  a  rosy  bower, 

Instead  of  hiding  there. 

Yet  there  it  was  content  to  bloom, 

In  modest  tints  arrayed; 
And  there  diffused  a  sweet  perfume, 

Within  the  silent  shade. 

Then  let  me  to  the  valley  go, 

This  pretty  flower  to  see; 
That  I  may  also  learn  to  grow 

In  sweet  humility. 

Jane  Taylor 

DEEDS  OF  KINDNESS 

Suppose  the  little  Cowslip 
Should  hang  its  golden  cup 

And  say,  "I'm  such  a  little  flower 
I'd  better  not  grow  up!" 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  83 

How  many  a  weary  traveler 

Would  miss  its  fragrant  smell, 
How  many  a  little  child  would  grieve 

To  lose  it  from  the  dell! 

Suppose  the  glistening  Dewdrop 

Upon  the  grass  should  say, 
"What  can  a  little  dewdrop  do? 

I'd  better  roll  away!" 
The  blade  on  which  it  rested, 

Before  the  day  was  done, 
Without  a  drop  to  moisten  it, 

Would  wither  in  the  sun. 

Suppose  the  little  Breezes, 

Upon  a  summer's  day, 
Should  think  themselves  too  small  to  cool 

The  traveler  on  his  way: 
Who  would  not  miss  the  smallest 

And  softest  ones  that  blow, 
And  think  they  made  a  great  mistake 

If  they  were  acting  so? 

How  many  deeds  of  kindness 

A  little  child  can  do, 
Although  it  has  but  little  strength 

And  little  wisdom  too! 
It  wants  a  loving  spirit, 

Much  more  than  strength,  to  prove 
How  many  things  a  child  may  do 

For  others  by  its  love. 

THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE 

A  lion  with  the  heat  oppressed, 
One  day  composed  himself  to  rest: 
But  while  he  dozed  as  he  intended, 
A  mouse,  his  royal  back  ascended; 


84  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

Nor  thought  of  harm,  as  ^Esop  tells, 

Mistaking  him  for  someone  else; 

And  traveled  over  him,  and  round  him, 

And  might  have  left  him  as  she  found  him 

Had  she  not — tremble  when  you  hear — 

Tried  to  explore  the  monarch's  ear! 

Who  straightway  woke,  with  wrath  immense, 

And  shook  his  head  to  cast  her  thence. 

"You  rascal,  what  are  you  about?" 

Said  he,  when  he  had  turned  her  out, 

"I'll  teach  you  soon,"  the  lion  said, 

"To  make  a  mouse-hole  in  my  head!" 

So  saying,  he  prepared  his  foot 

To  crush  the  trembling  tiny  brute: 

But  she  (the  mouse)  with  tearful  eye, 

Implored  the  lion's  clemency, 

Who  thought  it  best  at  last  to  give 

His  little  prisoner  a  reprieve. 

'Twas  nearly  twelve  months  after  this, 

The  lion  chanced  his  way  to  miss; 

When  pressing  forward,  heedless  yet, 

He  got  entangled  in  a  net. 

With  dreadful  rage,  he  stamped  and  tore, 

And  straight  commenced  a  lordly  roar; 

When  the  poor  mouse,  who  heard  the  noise, 

Attended,  for  she  knew  his  voice. 

Then  what  the  lion's  utmost  strength 

Could  not  effect,  she  did  at  length; 

With  patient  labor  she  applied 

Her  teeth,  the  network  to  divide; 

And  so  at  last  forth  issued  he, 

A  lion,  by  a  mouse  set  free. 

Few  are  so  small  or  weak,  I  guess, 
But  may  assist  us  in  distress, 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  85 

Nor  shall  we  ever,  if  we're  wise, 
The  meanest,  or  the  least  despise. 

Jeffreys  Taylor 


BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES 

Buttercups  and  daisies, 

Oh,  the  pretty  flowers; 
Coming  ere  the  spring  time, 

To  tell  of  sunny  hours, 
While  the  trees  are  leafless, 

While  the  fields  are  bare, 
Buttercups  and  daisies 

Spring  up  here  and  there. 

Ere  the  snow-drop  peepeth, 

Ere  the  crocus  bold, 
Ere  the  early  primrose 

Opes  its  paly  gold, — 
Somewhere  on  the  sunny  bank 

Buttercups  are  bright; 
Somewhere  midst  the  frozen  grass 

Peeps  the  daisy  white. 

Little  hardy  flowers, 

Like  to  children  poor, 
Playing  in  their  sturdy  health 

By  their  mother's  door. 
Purple  with  the  north-wind, 

Yet  alert  and  bold; 
Fearing  not,  and  caring  not, 

Though  they  be  a-cold! 

What  to  them  is  winter! 
What  are  stormy  showers! 


66  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

Buttercups  and  daisies 

Are  these  human  flowers! 
He  who  gave  them  hardships 

And  a  life  of  care, 
Gave  them  likewise  hardy  strength 

And  patient  hearts  to  bear. 

Mary  Howitt 


SOME  MURMUR  WHEN  THEIR  SKY  IS  CLEAR 

Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear, 

And  wholly  bright  to  view, 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 

In  their  great  heaven  of  blue. 
And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled, 

If  but  one  streak  of  light, 
One  ray  of  God's  good  mercy,  gild 

The  darkness  of  their  night. 

In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 

In  discontent  and  pride, 
Why  life  is  such  a  dreary  task, 

And  all  good  things  denied. 
And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 

How  love  has  in  their  aid 
(Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire) 

Such  rich  provision  made. 

Richard  Chevenix  Trench 


DUTY 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low  "Thou  must," 

The  youth  replies,  "I  can." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN  87 


TO  A  CHILD 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts: 

Of  humblest  friends,  bright  creature!  scorn  not  one: 

The  daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 

Protects  the  lingering  dewdrop  from  the  sun. 

William  Wordsworth 


WRITTEN  IN  A  LITTLE  LADY'S  LITTLE  ALBUM 

Hearts  good  and  true 

Have  wishes  few 
In  narrow  circles  bounded, 

And  hope  that  lives 

On  what  God  gives 
Is  Christian  hope  well  founded. 

Small  things  are  best; 

Grief  and  unrest 
To  rank  and  wealth  are  given; 

But  little  things 

On  little  wings 
Bear  little  souls  to  heaven. 

Frederick  William  Faber 


'  A  FAREWELL 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you; 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  gray: 
Yet,  if  you  will,  one  quiet  hint  I'll  leave  you 
For  every  day. 

I'll  tell  you  how  to  sing  a  clearer  carol 
Than  lark  who  hails  the  dawn  on  breezy  down; 


88  THE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

To  earn  yourself  a  purer  poet's  laurel 
Than  Shakespeare's  crown. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long: 
And  so  make  Life,  and  Death,  and  that  For  Ever 
One  grand  sweet  song. 

Charles  Kingsley 


jTfiifdhood 


REEDS  OF  INNOCENCE       '' 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he  laughing  said  to  me: 

"Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb!" 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"Piper,  pipe  that  song  again;" 

So  I  piped:  he  wept  to  hear. 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer!" 
So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 

In  a  book  that  all  may  read." 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight; 

And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William  Blake 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

FOREIGN  LANDS 

Up  into  the  cherry  tree 

Who  should  climb  but  little  me? 

I  held  the  trunk  with  both  my  hands 

And  looked  abroad  on  foreign  lands. 

I  saw  the  next  door  garden  lie, 
Adorned  with  flowers,  before  my  eye, 
And  many  pleasant  places  more 
That  I  had  never  seen  before. 

I  saw  the  dimpling  river  pass 
And  be  the  sky's  blue  looking-glass; 
The  dusty  roads  go  up  and  down 
With  people  tramping  in  to  town. 

If  I  could  find  a  higher  tree 
Farther  and  farther  I  should  see, 
To  where  the  grown-up  river  slips 
Into  the  sea  among  the  ships. 

To  where  the  roads  on  either  hand 
Lead  onward  into  fairy  land, 
Where  all  the  children  dine  at  five, 
And  all  the  playthings  come  alive. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

THE  GARDENER 

The  gardener  does  not  love  to  talk, 
He  makes  me  keep  the  gravel  walk; 
And  when  he  puts  his  tools  away, 
He  locks  the  door  and  takes  the  key. 
91 


92  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

Away  behind  the  currant  row 
Where  no  one  else  but  cook  may  go, 
Far  in  the  plots,  I  see  him  dig, 
Old  and  serious,  brown  and  big. 

He  digs  the  flowers,  green,  red,  and  blue, 
Nor  wishes  to  be  spoken  to. 
He  digs  the  flowers  and  cuts  the  hay, 
And  never  seems  to  want  to  play. 

Silly  gardener!  summer  goes, 
And  winter  comes  with  pinching  toes, 
When  in  the  garden  bare  and  brown 
You  must  lay  your  barrow  down. 

Well  now,  and  while  the  summer  stays, 
To  profit  by  these  garden  days 
O  how  much  wiser  you  would  be 
To  play  at  Indian  wars  with  me! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


MY  SHADOW 

I  have  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out  with  me, 
And  what  can  be  the  use  of  him  is  more  than  I  can  see. 
He  is  very,  very  like  me  from  the  heels  up  to  the  head; 
And  I  see  him  jump  before  me,  when  I  jump  into  my 
bed. 

The  funniest  thing  about  him  is  the  way  he  likes  to  grow — 
Not   at   all   like   proper  children,  which  is   always  very 

slow; 
For  he  sometimes  shoots  up  taller  like  an  India-rubber 

ball, 
And  he  sometimes  gets  so  little  that  there's  none  of  him 

at  all. 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  93 

He  hasn't  got  a  notion  of  how  children  ought  to  play, 
And  can  only  make  a  fool  of  me  in  every  sort  of  way. 
He  stays  so  close  beside  me,  he's  a  coward  you  can  see; 
I'd  think  shame  to  stick  to  nursie  as  that  shadow  sticks  to 
me! 

One  morning,  very  early,  before  the  sun  was  up, 
I  rose  and  found  the  shining  dew  on  every  buttercup; 
But  my  lazy  little  shadow,  like  an  arrant  sleepy-head, 
Had  stayed  at  home  behind  me  and  was  fast  asleep  in 
bed. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


THE  LAND  OF  COUNTERPANE 

When  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed, 
I  had  two  pillows  at  my  head, 
And  all  my  toys  beside  me  lay 
To  keep  me  happy  all  the  day. 

And  sometimes  for  an  hour  or  so 
I  watched  my  leaden  soldiers  go, 
With  different  uniforms  and  drills, 
Among  the  bed-clothes,  through  the  hills; 

And  sometimes  sent  my  ships  in  fleets 
All  up  and  down  among  the  sheets; 
Or  brought  my  trees  and  houses  out, 
And  planted  cities  all  about. 

I  was  the  giant  great  and  still 
That  sits  upon  the  pillow-hill, 
And  sees  before  him,  dale  and  plain, 
The  pleasant  land  of  counterpane. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


94 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 


THE  PEDDLER'S  CARAVAN 

I  wish  I  lived  in  a  caravar 
With  a  horse  to  drive,  like  a  peddler-man! 
Where  he  comes  from  nobody  knows, 
Or  where  he  goes  to,  but  on  he  goes! 

His  caravan  has  windows  two, 

And  a  chimney  of  tin,  that  the  smoke  comes  through; 

He  has  a  wife,  with  a  baby  brown, 

And  they  go  riding  from  town  to  town. 

Chairs  to  mend,  and  delf  to  sell! 
He  clashes  the  basins  like  a  bell; 
Tea-trays,  baskets  ranged  in  order, 
Plates,  with  alphabets  round  the  border! 

The  roads  are  brown,  and  the  sea  is  green, 
But  his  house  is  like  a  bathing-machine; 
The  world  is  round,  and  he  can  ride, 
Rumble  and  slash,  to  the  other  side! 

With  the  peddler-man  I  should  like  to  roam, 
And  write  a  book  when  I  came  home; 
All  the  people  would  read  my  book, 
Just  like  the  Travels  of  Captain  Cook! 

William  Brighty  Rands 


MR.  COGGS 

A  watch  will  tell  the  time  of  day, 
Or  tell  it  nearly,  any  way, 
Excepting  when  it's  overwound, 
Or  when  you  drop  it  on  the  ground. 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  95 

If  any  of  our  watches  stop, 
\\V  haste  to  Mr.  Coggs's  shop; 
For  though  to  scold  us  he  pretends, 
He's  quite  among  our  special  friends. 

He  fits  a  dice-box  in  his  eye, 

And  takes  a  long  and  thoughtful  spy, 

And  prods  the  wheels,  and  says,  "Dear,  dearl 

More  carelessness,  I  greatly  fear." 

And  then  he  lays  the  dice-box  down 
And  frowns  a  most  prodigious  frown; 
But  if  we  ask  him  what's  the  time, 
He'll  make  his  gold  repeater  chime. 

Edward  Verrall  Lucas 


LITTLE  RAINDROPS 

Oh,  where  do  you  come  from, 

You  little  drops  of  rain, 
Fitter  patter,  pitter  patter, 

Down  the  window-pane? 

They  won't  let  me  walk, 

And  they  won't  let  me  play, 

And  they  won't  let  me  go 
Out  of  doors  at  all  to-day. 

They  put  away  my  playthings 

Because  I  broke  them  all, 
And  then  they  locked  up  all  my  bricks, 

And  took  away  my  ball. 

Tell  me,  little  raindrops, 

Is  that  the  way  you  play, 
Pitter  patter,  pitter  patter, 

All  the  rainy  day? 


96  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

They  say  I'm  very  naughty, 
But  I've  nothing  else  to  do 

But  sit  here  at  the  window; 
I  should  like  to  play  with  you. 

The  little  raindrops  cannot  speak, 

But  "pitter,  patter  pat" 
Means,  "We  can  play  on  this  side: 

Why  can't  you  play  on  that?" 

Mrs.  Hawksht 


MR.  NOBODY 

I  know  a  funny  little  man, 

As  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
Who  does  the  mischief  that  is  done 

In  everybody's  house! 
There's  no  one  ever  sees  his  face, 

And  yet  we  all  agree 
That  every  plate  we  break  was  cracked 

By  Mr.  Nobody. 

'Tis  he  who  always  tears  our  books, 

Who  leaves  the  door  ajar, 
He  pulls  the  buttons  from  our  shirts, 

And  scatters  pins  afar; 
That  squeaking  door  will  always  squeak 

For,  prithee,  don't  you  see, 
We  leave  the  oiling  to  be  done 

By  Mr.  Nobody. 

He  puts  damp  wood  upon  the  fire, 

That  kettles  cannot  boil; 
His  are  the  feet  that  bring  in  mud, 

And  all  the  carpets  soil. 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  97 

The  papers  always  are  mislaid, 

Who  had  them  last  but  he? 
There's  no  one  tosses  them  about 

But  Mr.  Nobody. 

The  finger-marks  upon  the  door 

By  none  of  us  are  made; 
We  never  leave  the  blinds  unclosed, 

To  let  the  curtains  fade. 
The  ink  we  never  spill,  the  boots 

That  lying  round  you  see 
Are  not  our  boots;  they  all  belong 

To  Mr.  Nobody. 

A  MORTIFYING  MISTAKE 

I  studied  my  tables  over  and  over,  and  backward  and  for- 
ward, too; 

But  I  couldn't  remember  six  times  nine,  and  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do, 

Till  sister  told  me  to  play  with  my  doll,  and  not  to  bother 
my  head. 

"If  you  call  her  ' Fifty-four'  for  a  while,  you'll  learn  it  by 
heart,"  she  said. 

So  I  took  my  favorite,  Mary  Ann  (though  I  thought  'twas 

a  dreadful  shame 
To  give  such  a  perfectly  lovely  child  such  a  perfectly  horrid 

name), 
And  I  called  her  my  dear  little  "Fifty-four"  a  hundred 

times,  till  I  knew 
The  answer  of  six  times  nine  as  well  as  the  answer  of  two 

times  two. 

Next  day  Elizabeth  Wigglesworth,  who  always  acts  so 

proud, 
Said,  "Six  times  nine  is  fifty-two,"  and  I  nearly  laughed 

aloud! 


98  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

But  I  wished  I  hadn't  when  teacher  said,  "Now,  Dorothy, 

tell  if  you  can." 
For  I  thought  of  my  doll  and — sakes  alive! — I  answered, 

"Mary  Ann!" 

Anna  Maria  Pratt 


WISHING 

Ring-ting!    I  wish  I  were  a  Primrose, 
A  bright  yellow  Primrose,  blowing  in  the  Spring! 

The  stooping  bough  above  me, 

The  wandering  bee  to  love  me, 
The  fern  and  moss  to  creep  across, 
And  the  Elm-tree  for  our  King! 

Nay, — stay!    I  wish  I  were  an  Elm-tree, 
A  great  lofty  Elm-tree,  with  green  leaves  gay! 

The  winds  would  set  them  dancing, 

The  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in, 
The  Birds  would  house  among  the  boughs, 
And  sweetly  sing! 

O — no!    I  wish  I  were  a  Robin, 
A  Robin  or  a  little  Wren,  everywhere  to  go; 

Through  forest,  field,  or  garden, 

And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon, 
Till  Winter  comes  with  icy  thumbs 
To  ruffle  up  our  wing. 

Well— tell!    Where  should  I  fly  to, 
Where  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood  or  dell? 
Before  a  day  was  over, 
Home  comes  the  rover, 
For  Mother's  kiss, — sweeter  this 
Than  any  other  thin^! 

William  Allingham 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  99 


THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY 

"Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor?"  said  the  Spider  to  the 

Fly. 

"Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor  that  ever  you  did  spy; 
The  way  into  my  parlor  is  up  a  winding  stair, 
And  I  have  many  curious  things  to  show  when  you  are 

there." 

"Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "to  ask  me  is  in  vain; 
For  who  goes  up  your  winding  stair  can  ne'er  come  down 

again." 

"I'm  sure  you  must  be  weary,  dear,  with  soaring  up  so 

high; 
Will  you  rest  upon  my  little  bed?"  said  the  Spider  to  the 

Fly. 
"There  are  pretty  curtains  drawn  around,  the  sheets  are 

fine  and  thin; 

And  if  you  like  to  rest  a  while,  I'll  snugly  tuck  you  in!" 
"Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "for  I've  often  heard  it 

said, 
They  never,  never  wake  again,  who  sleep  upon  your  bed!" 

Said  the  cunning  Spider  to  the  Fly,  "Dear  friend,  what 

can  I  do 

To  prove  the  warm  affection  I've  always  felt  for  you? 
I  have,  within  my  pantry,  good  store  of  all  that's  nice; 
I'm  sure  you're  very  welcome — will  you  please  to  take  a 

slice?" 

"Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "kind  sir,  that  cannot  be, 
I've  heard  what's  in  your  pantry,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  see ! " 

"Sweet   creature,"   said   the   Spider,   "you're  witty   and 

you're  wise; 
How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings,  how  brilliant  are 

your  eyes! 


100  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

I  have  a  little  looking-glass  upon  my  parlor  shelf; 

If  you'll  step  in  one  moment,  dear,  you  shall  behold  your- 
self." 

"I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said,  "for  what  you're 
pleased  to  say, 

And  bidding  you  good  morning  now,  I'll  call  another  day." 

The  Spider  turned  him  round  about,  and  went  into  his  den, 

For  well  he  knew  the  silly  Fly  would  soon  be  back  again; 

So  he  wove  a  subtle  web  in  a  little  corner  sly, 

And  set  his  table  ready  to  dine  upon  the  Fly. 

Then  he  came  out  to  his  door  again,  and  merrily  did  sing, 

"Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  Fly,  with  the  pearl  and  silver 

wing; 
Your  robes  are  green  and  purple,  there's  a  crest  upon  your 

head; 
Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright,  but  mine  are  dull 

as  lead." 

Alas,  alas!  how  very  soon  this  silly  little  Fly, 

Hearing  his  wily,  flattering  words,  came  slowly  flitting  by: 

With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft,  then  near  and  nearer 

drew, — 
Thinking  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  green  and  purple 

hue; 
Thinking  only  of  her  crested  head — poor  foolish  thing! 

At  last, 

Up  jumped  the  cunning  Spider,  and  fiercely  held  her  fast. 
He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair,  into  his  dismal  den 
Within  his  little  parlor — but  she  ne'er  came  out  again! 

And  now,  dear  little  children,  who  may  this  story  read, 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words,  I  pray  you  ne'er  give  heed; 
Unto  an  evil  counsellor  close  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
And  take  a  lesson  from  this  tale  of  the  Spider  and  the  Fly. 

Mary  Howitt 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  i '  > ; 


PRINCE  TATTERS 

Little  Prince  Tatters  has  lost  his  cap! 

Over  the  hedge  he  threw  it; 
Into  the  river  it  fell  "kerslap!" 

Stupid  old  thing  to  do  it! 
Now  Mother  may  sigh  and  Nurse  may  fume 
For  the  gay  little  cap  with  its  eagle  plume. 
''One  cannot  be  thinking  all  day  of  such  matters! 
Trifles  are  trifles!"  says  little  Prince  Tatters. 

Little  Prince  Tatters  has  lost  his  coat! 

Playing,  he  did  not  need  it; 
"Left  it  right  there,  by  the  nanny-goat, 

And  nobody  never  seed  it!" 
Now  Mother  and  Nurse  may  search  till  night 
For  the  little  new  coat  with  its  buttons  bright; 
But — "Coat-sleeves  or  shirt-sleeves,  how  little  it  matters! 
Trifles  are  trifles!"  says  little  Prince  Tatters. 

Little  Prince  Tatters  has  LOST  HIS  BALL! 

Rolled  away  down  the  street! 
Somebody'll  have  to  find  it,  that's  all, 

Before  he  can  sleep  or  eat. 
Now  raise  the  neighborhood,  quickly,  do! 
And  send  for  the  crier  and  constable  too! 
"Trifles  are  trifles;  but  serious  matters, 
They  must  be  seen  to"  says  little  Prince  Tatters. 

Laura  E.  Richards 


SEEIN'  THINGS 

I  ain't  afeard  uv  snakes,  or  toads,  or  bugs,  or  worms,  or 

mice, 
An'  things  'at  girls  are  skeered  uv  I  think  are  awful  nice! 


:02  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

I'm  pretty  brave,  I  guess;  an'  yet  I  hate  to  go  to  bed, 
For  when  I'm  tucked  up  warm  an'  snug  an'  when  my 

prayers  are  said, 
Mother  tells  me,  "Happy  Dreams!"  an'  takes  away  the 

light, 
An'  leaves  me  lyin'  all  alone  an'  seein'  things  at  night! 

Sometimes  they're  in  the  corner,  sometimes  they're  by 

the  door, 
Sometimes  they're  all   a-standin'   in  the  middle   uv  the 

floor; 
Sometimes   they   are    a-sittin'    down,    sometimes   they're 

walkin'  round 

So  softly  and  so  creepylike  they  never  make  a  sound! 
Sometimes  they  are  as  black  as  ink,  an'  other  times  they're 

white— 
But  the  color  ain't  no  difference  when  you  see  things  at 

night! 

Once,  when  I  licked  a  feller  'at  had  just  moved  on  our 

street, 

An'  father  sent  me  up  to  bed  without  a  bite  to  eat, 
I  woke  up  in  the  dark  an'  saw  things  stand  in'  in  a  row, 
A-lookin'  at  me  cross-eyed  an'  p'intin'  at  me — so! 
Oh,  my!  I  wuz  so  skeered  that  time  I  never  slep'  a  mite — 
It's  almost  alluz  when  I'm  bad  I  see  things  at  night! 

Lucky  thine;  I  ain't  a  girl,  or  I'd  be  skeered  to  death! 
Bein'  I'm  a  boy,  I  duck  my  head  an'  hold  my  breath; 
An'  I  am,  oh,  so  sorry  I'm  a  naughty  boy,  an'  then 
I  promise  to  be  better  an'  I  say  my  prayers  again! 
Gran'ma  tells  me  that's  the  only  way  to  make  it  right 
When  a  feller  has  been  wicked  an'  sees  things  at  night! 

An'  so,  when  other  naughty  boys  would  coax  me  into  sin, 
I  try  to  skwush  the  Tempter's  voice  'at  urges  me  within; 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  103 

An'  when  they's  pie  for  supper,  or  cakes  'at's  big  an'  nice, 
I  want  to — but  I  do  not  pass  my  plate  Pr  them  things 

twice! 

No,  ruther  let  Starvation  wipe  me  slowly  out  o'  sight 
Than  I  should  keep  a-livin'  on  an'  seein'  things  at  night! 

Eugene  Field 


THE  RAGGEDY  MAN  * 

O  The  Raggedy  Man!    He  works  fer  Pa; 
An'  he's  the  goodest  man  ever  you  saw! 
He  comes  to  our  house  every  day, 
An'  waters  the  horses,  an'  feeds  'em  hay; 
An'  he  opens  the  shed — an'  we  all  ist  laugh 
When  he  drives  out  our  little  old  wobble-ly  calf; 
An'  nen — ef  our  hired  girl  says  he  can- 
He  milks  the  cow  fer  'Lizabuth  Ann. — 
Ain't  he  a'  awful  good  Raggedy  Man? 
Raggedy!  Raggedy!  Raggedy  Man! 

W'y,  The  Raggedy  Man — he's  ist  so  good, 
He  splits  the  kindlin'  an'  chops  the  wood; 
An'  nen  he  spades  in  our  garden,  too, 
An'  does  most  things  'at  boys  can't  do. — 
He  clumbed  clean  up  in  our  big  tree 
An'  shocked  a'  apple  down  fer  me — 
An'  nother  V,  too,  fer  'Lizabuth  Ann — 
An'  nother  V,  too,  fer  The  Raggedy  Man. — 
Ain't  he  a'  awful  kind  Raggedy  Man? 
Raggedy!  Raggedy!  Raggedy  Man! 

An'  The  Raggedy  Man,  he  knows  most  rhymes, 
An'  tells  'em,  ef  I  be  good,  sometimes: 

*  This  and  the  following  poems  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley  are  from  the 
Biographical  Edition  of  his  complete  works,  copyright  1913,  and  are  used  by 
special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


104  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

Knows  'bout  Giunts,  an'  Griffuns,  an'  Elves, 
An'  the  Squidgicum-Squees  'at  swallers  the'rselves! 
An',  wite  by  the  pump  in  our  pasture-lot, 
He  showed  me  the  hole  'at  the  Wunks  is  got, 
'At  lives  'way  deep  in  the  ground,  an'  can 
Turn  into  me,  er  'Lizabuth  Ann! 
Er  Ma,  er  Pa,  er  The  Raggedy  Man! 
Ain't  he  a  funny  old  Raggedy  Man? 
Raggedy!  Raggedy!  Raggedy  Man! 

The  Raggedy  Man — one  time,  when  he 
Was  makin'  a  little  bow-'n'-orry  fer  me, 
Says,  "When  you're  big  like  your  Pa  is, 
Air  you  go'  to  keep  a  fine  store  like  his — 
An'  be  a  rich  merchunt — an'  wear  fine  clothes? — 
Er  what  air  you  go'  to  be,  goodness  knows?" 
An'  nen  he  laughed  at  'Lizabuth  Ann, 
An'  I  says  "'M  go'  to  be  a  Raggedy  Man! — 
I'm  ist  go'  to  be  a  nice  Raggedy  Man!" 
Raggedy!  Raggedy!  Raggedy  Man! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  MOON 

Said  The  Raggedy  Man,  on  a  hot  afternoon: 
My! 
Sakes! 

What  a  lot  o'  mistakes 

Some  little  folks  makes  on  The  Man  in  the  Moon! 
But  people  that's  b'en  up  to  see  him,  like  me, 
And  calls  on  him  frequent  and  intimuttly, 
Might  drop  a  few  facts  that  would  interest  you 
Clean! 

Through! — 

If  you  wanted  'em  to — 
Some  actual  facts  that  might  interest  you! 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  105 

0  The  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  crick  in  his  back; 

Wheel 
Whimm! 

Ain't  you  sorry  for  him  ? 

And  a  mole  on  his  nose  that  is  purple  and  black; 
And  his  eyes  are  so  weak  that  they  water  and  run 
If  he  dares  to  dream  even  he  looks  at  the  sun, — 
So  he  jes'  dreams  of  stars,  as  the  doctors  advise — 
My! 
Eyes! 

But  isn't  he  wise- 
To  jes'  dream  of  stars,  as  the  doctors  advise? 

And  The  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  boil  on  his  ear, — 
Wheel 
Whing! 

What  a  singular  thing! 

1  know!  but  these  facts  are  authentic,  my  dear, — 
There's  a  boil  on  his  ear;  and  a  corn  on  his  chin, — 
He  calls  it  a  dimple — but  dimples  stick  in — 

Yet  it  might  be  a  dimple  turned  over,  you  know! 
Whang! 
Ho! 

Why,  certainly  so! — 
It  might  be  a  dimple  turned  over,  you  know! 

And  The  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  rheumatic  knee, — 
Gee! 
Whizz! 

What  a  pity  that  is! 
And  his  toes  have  worked  round  where  his  heels  ought  to 

be.— 

So  whenever  he  wants  to  go  North  he  goes  South, 
And    comes   back  with    porridge-crumbs   all    round   his 
mouth, 


106  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

And  he  brushes  them  off  with  a  Japanese  fan, 
Whing! 
Whann! 

What  a  marvelous  man! 
What  a  very  remarkably  marvelous  man! 

And  The  Man  in  the  Moon,  sighed  The  Raggedy  Man, 
Gits! 
So! 

Sullonesome,  you  know, — 
Up  there  by  hisse'f  sence  creation  began!— 
That  when  I  call  on  him  and  then  come  away, 
He  grabs  me  and  holds  me  and  begs  me  to  stay, — 
Till — Well !  if  it  wasn't  fer  Jimmy-cum-jim, 
Dadd! 
Limb! 

I'd  go  pardners  with  him— 
Jes'  jump  my  job  here  and  be  pardners  with  him! 

James  IF  hit  comb  Riley 

OUR  HIRED  GIRL 

Our  hired  girl,  she's  'Lizabuth  Ann; 

An'  she  can  cook  best  things  to  eat! 
She  ist  puts  dough  in  our  pie-pan, 

An'  pours  in  somepin'  'at's  good  an'  sweet; 
An'  nen  she  salts  it  all  on  top 
With  cinnamon;  an'  nen  she'll  stop 
An'  stoop  an'  slide  it,  ist  as  slow, 
In  th'  old  cook-stove,  so's  'twon't  slop 
An'  git  all  spilled;  nen  bakes  it,  so 
It's  custard-pie,  first  thing  you  know! 
An'  nen  she'll  say, 
"Clear  out  o'  my  way! 
They's  time  fer  work,  an'  time  fer  play! 
Take  yer  dough,  an*  run,  child,  run! 
Er  I  cain't  git  no  cookin'  done!" 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  107 

When  •ur  hired  girl  'tends  like  she's  mad,' 

An'  says  folks  got  to  walk  the  chalk 
When  she's  around,  er  wisht  they  had! 

I  play  out  on  our  porch  an'  talk 
To  Th'  Raggedy  Man  'at  mows  our  lawn; 
An'  he  says,  "Whew!"  an'  nen  leans  on 

His  old  crook-scythe,  and  blinks  his  eyes, 
An'  sniffs  all  'round  an'  says,  "I  swawn! 
Ef  my  old  nose  don't  tell  me  lies, 
It  'pears  like  I  smell  custard-pies!" 
An'  nen  he  II  say, 
"Clear  out  o'  my  way! 
They's  time  fer  work,  an'  time  fer  play! 
Take  yer  dough,  an'  run,  child,  run! 
Er  she  cain't  git  no  cookin'  done!" 

Wunst  our  hired  girl,  when  she 
Got  the  supper,  an'  we  all  et, 
An'  it  wuz  night,  an'  Ma  an'  me 

An'  Pa  went  wher'  the  "Social"  met, — 
An'  nen  when  we  come  home,  an'  see 
A  light  in  the  kitchen  door,  an'  we 

Heerd  a  maccordeun,  Pa  says,  "LanJ- 
O'-Gracious,  who  can  her  beau  be?" 
An'  I  marched  in,  an'  'Lizabuth  Ann 
Wuz  parchin'  corn  fer  The  Raggedy  Man! 
Better  say, 

"Clear  out  o'  the  way! 
They's  time  fer  work,  an'  time  fer  play! 
Take  the  hint,  an'  run,  child,  run! 
Er  we  cain't  git  no  courtin'  done!" 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 


108  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 


LITTLE  ORPHANT  ANNIE 

Little  Orphant  Annie's  come  to  our  house  to  stay, 

An'  wash  the  cups  an'  saucers  up,  an'  brush  the  crumbs 

away, 
An'  shoo  the  chickens  off  the  porch,  an'  dust  the  hearth, 

an'  sweep, 
An'  make  the  fire,  an'  bake  the  bread,  an'  earn  her  board- 

an'-keep; 

An'  all  us  other  childern,  when  the  supper-things  is  done, 
We  set  around  the  kitchen  fire  an'  has  the  mostest  fun 
A-list'nin'  to  the  witch-tales  'at  Annie  tells  about, 
An'  the  Gobble-uns  'at  gits  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

Wunst  they  wuz  a  little  boy  wouldn't  say  his  prayers, — 

An'  when  he  went  to  bed  at  night,  away  up-stairs, 

His  Mammy  heerd  him  holler,  an'  his  Daddy  heerd  him 

bawl, 
An'  when  they  turn't  the  kivvers  down,  he  wuzn't  there  at 

all! 
An'  they  seeked  him  in  the  rafter-room,  an'  cubby-hole, 

an'  press, 
An'  seeked  him  up  the  chimbly-flue,  an'  ever'wheres,  I 

guess; 

But  all  they  ever  found  wuz  thist  his  pants  an'  round- 
about:— 

An'  the  Gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  109 

An'  one  time  a  little  girl  'ud  allus  laugh  an*  grin, 

An'  make  fun  of  ever'  one,  an'  all  her  blood-an'-kin; 

An'  wunst,  when  they  wuz  "company,"  an'  ole  folks  wuz 

there, 

She  mocked  'em  an'  shocked  'em,  an'  said  she  didn't  care! 
An'  thist  as  she  kicked  her  heels,  an'  turn't  to  run  an'  hide, 
They  wuz  two  great  big  Black  Things  a-standin'  by  her 

side, 
An'  they  snatched  her  through  the  ceilin'  'fore  she  knowed 

what  she's  about! 
An'  the  Gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

An'  little  Orphant  Annie  says,  when  the  blaze  is  blue, 
An'  the  lamp-wick  sputters,  an'  the  wind  goes  woo-oo! 
An'  you  hear  the  crickets  quit,  an'  the  moon  is  gray, 
An'  the  lightnin'-bugs  in  dew  is  all  squenched  away, — 
You  better  mind  yer  parunts,  an'  yer  teachurs  fond  an' 

dear, 

An'  churish  them  'at  loves  you,  an'  dry  the  orphant's  tear, 
An'  he'p  the  pore  an'  needy  ones  'at  clusters  all  about, 
Er  the  Gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

EXTREMES 

A  little  boy  once  played  so  loud 
That  the  Thunder,  up  in  a  thunder-cloud, 
Said,  "Since  7  can't  be  heard,  why,  then, 
I'll  never,  never  thunder  again!" 


1 1 0  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

And  a  little  girl  once  kept  so  still 
That  she  heard  a  fly  on  the  window-sill 
Whisper  and  say  to  a  lady-bird, 
"She's  the  stilliest  child  I  ever  heard!" 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 


A  BOY'S  MOTHER 

My  mother  she's  so  good  to  me, 
Ef  I  was  good  as  I  could  be, 
I  couldn't  be  as  good — no,  sir!— 
Can't  any  boy  be  good  as  her. 

She  loves  me  when  I'm  glad  er  sad; 
She  loves  me  when  I'm  good  er  bad; 
An',  what's  a  funniest  thing,  she  says 
She  loves  me  when  she  punishes. 

I  don't  like  her  to  punish  me,— 
That  don't  hurt — but  it  hurts  to  see 
Her  cryin'. — Nen  /  cry;  an'  nen 
We  both  cry  an'  be  good  again. 

She  loves  me  when  she  cuts  an'  sews 
My  little  cloak  an'  Sund'y  clothes; 
An'  when  my  Pa  comes  home  to  tea, 
She  loves  him  most  as  much  as  me. 


She  laughs  an'  tells  him  all  I  said, 
An'  grabs  me  up  an'  pats  my  head; 
An'  I  hug  her,  an'  hug  my  Pa, 
An'  love  him  purt'  nigh  as  much  as  Ma. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  1 1 1 


MY  SORE  THUMB 

I  jabbed  a  jack-knife  in  my  thumb— 
Th'  blood  just  spurted  when  it  come! 

The  cook  got  faint,  an'  nurse  she  yelled 

And  showed  me  how  it  should  be  held, 
An'  Gran'ma  went  to  get  a  rag, 
An'  couldn't  find  one  in  th'  bag; 

An'  all  the  rest  was  just  struck  dumb 

To  see  my  thumb! 

Since  I  went  an'  jabbed  my  thumb 
I  go  around  a-lookin'  glum, 

And  Aunt,  she  pats  me  on  the  head 

An'  gives  me  extra  ginger-bread; 
But  brother's  mad,  an'  says  he'll  go 
An'  take  an  axe,  an'  chop  his  toe: 

An'  then  he  guesses  I'll  keep  mum 

About  my  thumb! 

At  school  they  as't  to  see  my  thumb, 
But  I  just  showed  it  to  my  chum, 

An'  any  else  that  wants  to  see 

Must  divvy  up  their  cake  with  me! 
It's  gettin'  well  so  fast,  I  think 
I'll  fix  it  up  with  crimson  ink, 

An'  that'll  keep  up  interest  some 

In  my  poor  thumb! 

Surges  Johnson 

LITTLE  GUSTAVA 

Little  Gustava  sits  in  the  sun, 
Safe  in  the  porch,  and  the  little  drops  run 
From  the  icicles  under  the  eaves  so  fast, 
For  the  bright  spring  .sun  shines  warm  at  last, 
And  glad  is  little  Gustava. 


1 1 2  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

She  wears  a  quaint  little  scarlet  cap, 
And  a  little  green  bowl  she  holds  in  her  lap, 
Filled  with  bread  and  milk  to  the  brim, 
And  a  wreath  of  marigolds  round  the  rim: 
"Ha!  ha!"  laughs  little  Gustava. 

Up  comes  her  little  gray  coaxing  cat 
With  her  little  pink  nose,  and  she  mews,  "What's  that?1 
Gustava  feeds  her, — she  begs  for  more; 
And  a  little  brown  hen  walks  in  at  the  door: 
"Good  day!"  cries  little  Gustava. 

She  scatters  crumbs  for  the  little  brown  hen. 
There  comes  a  rush  and  a  flutter,  and  then 
Down  fly  her  little  white  doves  so  sweet, 
With  their  snowy  wings  and  crimson  feet: 
"Welcome!"  cries  little  Gustava. 

So,  dainty  and  eager,  they  pick  up  the  crumbs. 
But  who  is  this  through  the  doorway  comes? 
Little  Scotch  terrier,  little  dog  Rags, 
Looks  in  her  face,  and  his  funny  tail  wags: 
"Ha!  ha!"  laughs  little  Gustava. 

"You  want  some  breakfast  too?"  and  down 
She  sets  her  bowl  on  the  brick  floor  brown; 
And  little  dog  Rags  drinks  up  her  milk, 
While  she  strokes  his  shaggy  locks  like  silk: 
"Dear  Rags!"  says  little  Gustava. 

Waiting  without  stood  sparrow  and  crow, 
Cooling  their  feet  in  the  melting  snow: 
"Won't  you  come  in,  good  folk?"  she  cried. 
But  they  were  too  bashful,  and  stood  outside 
Though  "Pray  come  in!"  cried  Gustava. 

So  the  last  she  threw  them,  and  knelt  on  the  mat 
With  doves  and  biddy  and  dog  and  cat. 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  1 1 3 

And  her  mother  came  to  the  open  house-door: 
"Dear  little  daughter,  I  bring  you  some  more. 
My  merry  little  Gustava!" 

Kitty  and  terrier,  biddy  and  doves, 
All  things  harmless  Gustava  loves. 
The  shy,  kind  creatures  'tis  joy  to  feed, 
And  oh,  her  breakfast  is  sweet  indeed 
To  happy  little  Gustava! 

Celia  Thaxter 

LETTY'S  GLOBE 

OR  SOME  IRREGULARITIES  IN  A  FIRST  LESSON  IN  GEOGRAPHY 

When  Letty  had  scarce  passed  her  third  glad  year, 

And  her  young  artless  words  began  to  flow, 

One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  colored  sphere 

Of  the  wide  Earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know, 

By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 

She  patted  all  the  world;  old  Empires  peeped 

Between  her  baby  fingers;  her  soft  hand 

Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.    How  she  leaped, 

And  laughed  and  prattled  in  her  world-wide  bliss! 

But  when  we  turned  her  sweet  unlearned  eye 

On  our  own  Isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  cry, — 

"Oh!  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there!" 

And  while  she  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss, 

Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner 


IN  THE  GARDEN 

I  spied  beside  the  garden  bed 

A  tiny  lass  of  ours, 
Who  stopped  and  bent  her  sunny  head 

Above  the  red  June  flowers. 


1 1 4  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

Pushing  the  leaves  and  thorns  apart, 

She  singled  out  a"  rose, 
And  in  its  inmost  crimson  heart, 

Enraptured,  plunged  her  nose. 

"O  dear,  dear  rose,  come,  tell  me  true — 

Come,  tell  me  true,"  said  she, 
"If  I  smell  just  as  sweet  to  you 

As  you  smell  sweet  to  me!" 

Ernest  Crosby 


UNDER  MY  WINDOW 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

All  in  the  Midsummer  weather, 
Three  little  girls  with  fluttering  curls 

Flit  to  and  fro  together: — 
There's  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 

And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

Leaning  stealthily  over, 
Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  I  hear 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 
Ah!  sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses; 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and  posies, 

As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
In  the  blue  Midsummer  weather, 

Stealing  slow,  on  a  hushed  tiptoe, 
I  catch  them  all  together: — 

Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 

And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  1 1 5 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
And  off  through  the  orchard  closes; 

While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts, 
They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies; 

But  dear  little  Kate  takes  naught  amiss, 

And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving  kiss, 
And  I  give  her  all  my  roses. 

Thomas  Westwood 

NURSE'S  SONG 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green 

And  laughing  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
My  heart  is  at  rest  within  my  breast, 

And  everything  else  is  still. 

"Then  come  home,  my  children,  the  sun  is  gone  down, 

And  the  dews  of  the  night  arise; 
Come,  come,  leave  off  play,  and  let  us  away 

Till  the  morning  appears  in  the  skies." 

"No,  no,  let  us  play,  for  it  is  yet  day, 

And  we  cannot  go  to  sleep; 
Besides,  in  the  sky  the  little  birds  fly, 

And  the  hills  are  all  covered  with  sheep." 

"Well,  well,  go  and  play  till  the  light  fades  away, 

And  then  go  home  to  bed." 
The  little  ones  leaped,  and  shouted,  and  laughed, 

And  all  the  hills  echoed. 

William  Blake 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 


1 6  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy, — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy! 
Prince  thou  art, — the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican, 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans! 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  1 1  7 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy, — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 


1 1 8  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch:  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat: 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil: 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah!  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy! 

John  Greenleaf  IVhittier 

THE  LITTLE  BLACK  BOY 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  oh,  my  soul  is  white! 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  1 19 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree, 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  East,  began  to  say: 

"Look  on  the  rising  sun, — there  God  does  live, 
And  gives  His  light,  and  gives  His  heat  away; 

And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men  receive 
Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

"And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 

That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love; 

And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"For,  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat  to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear  His  voice, 

Saying:  'Come  out  from  the  grove,  My  love  and  care, 
And  round  My  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice/" 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me; 

And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy. 
When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white  cloud  free, 

And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy, 

I'll  shade  him  from  the  heat,  till  he  can  bear 

To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee; 
And  then  I'll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 

And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 

William  Blake 


THE  BLIND  BOY 

O  say  what  is  that  thing  called  Light, 
Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy; 

What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight. 
O  tell  your  poor  blind  boy! 


120  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright; 

I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he, 
Or  make  it  day  or  night? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 
Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play; 

And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 
With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy: 

Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 
Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 


Colley  Gibber 


THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three  years; 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  Bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment;  what  ails  her?    She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapor  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail; 


RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  1 2 1 

And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven:  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade: 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colors  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes! 

William  Wordsworth 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence: 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall! 


122  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all! 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


jv  jci/f  NI 


oorenje 


MY  RECOLLECTEST  THOUGHTS 

My  recollectest  thoughts  are  those 

Which  I  remember  yet; 
And  bearing  on,  as  you'd  suppose, 

The  things  I  don't  forget. 

But  my  resemblest  thoughts  are  less 

Alike  than  they  should  be; 
A  state  of  things,  as  you'll  confess, 

You  very  seldom  see. 

And  yet  the  mostest  thought  I  love 

Is  what  no  one  believes — 
That  I'm  the  sole  survivor  of 

The  famous  Forty  Thieves! 

Charles  Edward  Carry! 


JUST  NONSENSE 

MR.  FINNEY'S  TURNIP 

Mr.  Finney  had  a  turnip 

And  it  grew  behind  the  barn; 

And  it  grew  and  it  grew, 
And  that  turnip  did  no  harm. 

There  it  grew  and  it  grew 
Till  it  could  grow  no  longer; 

Then  his  daughter  Lizzie  picked  it 
And  put  it  in  the  cellar. 

There  it  lay  and  it  lay 

Till  it  began  to  rot; 
And  his  daughter  Susie  took  it 

And  put  it  in  the  pot. 

And  they  boiled  it  and  boiled  it 
As  long  as  they  were  able; 

And  then  his  daughters  took  it 
And  put  it  on  the  table. 

Mr.  Finney  and  his  wife 

They  sat  them  down  to  sup; 

And  they  ate  and  they  ate 
And  they  ate  that  turnip  up. 


THERE  WAS  A  MONKEY 

There  was  a  monkey  climbed  up  a  tree, 
When  he  fell  down,  then  down  fell  he. 
125 


126  JUST  NONSENSE 

There  was  a  crow  sat  on  a  stone, 
When  he  was  gone,  then  there  was  none. 

There  was  an  old  wife  did  eat  an  apple, 
When  she  had  eat  two,  she  had  eat  a  couple. 

There  was  a  horse  going  to  the  mill, 
When  he  went  on,  he  stood  not  still. 

There  was  a  butcher  cut  his  thumb, 
When  it  did  bleed,  then  blood  did  come. 

There  was  a  lackey  ran  a  race, 
When  he  ran  fast,  he  ran  apace. 

There  was  a  cobbler  clouting  shoon, 
When  they  were  mended,  they  were  done. 

There  was  a  navy  went  into  Spain, 
When  it  returned,  it  came  again. 


THE  THREE  JOVIAL  WELSHMEN 

There  were  three  jovial  Welshmen, 
As  I  have  heard  them  say, 

And  they  would  go  a-hunting 
Upon  St.  David's  day. 

All  the  day  they  hunted, 

And  nothing  could  they  find, 

But  a  ship  a-sailing, 

A-sailing  with  the  wind. 

One  said  it  was  a  ship, 

The  other  he  said,  nay; 
The  third  said  it  was  a  house 

With  the  chimney  blown  away. 


JUST  NONSENSE  127 

And  all  night  they  hunted, 

And  nothing  could  they  find, 
But  the  moon  a-gliding, 

A-gliding  with  the  wind. 

One  said  it  was  the  moon, 

The  other  he  said,  nay; 
The  third  said  it  was  a  cheese, 

With  half  of  it  cut  away. 

And  all  day  they  hunted, 

And  nothing  could  they  fir.cl, 
But  a  hedgehog  in  a  bramble-bush, 

And  that  they  left  behind. 

The  first  said  'twas  a  hedgehog, 

The  second  he  said,  nay; 
The  third  it  was  a  pin-cushion, 

With  the  pins  stuck  in  wrong  way. 

And  all  night  they  hunted, 

And  nothing  could  they  find, 
But  a  hare  in  a  turnip  field, 

And  that  they  left  behind. 

The  first  said  it  was  a  hare, 

The  second  he  said,  nay; 
The  third  said  it  was  a  calf, 

And  the  cow  had  run  away. 

And  all  day  they  hunted, 

And  nothing  could  they  find, 
But  an  owl  in  a  holly-tree, 

And  that  they  left  behind. 

The  first  said  it  was  an  owl, 

The  second  he  said,  nay; 
The  third  said  'twas  an  old  man, 

And  his  beard  was  growing  gray, 


128 


JUST  NONSENSE 


THE  JUMBLIES 

They  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve,  they  did; 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea; 
In  spite  of  all  their  friends  could  say, 
On  a  winter's  morn,  on  a  stormy  day, 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea. 
And  when  the  sieve  turned  round  and  round, 
And  every  one  cried,  "You'll  all  be  drowned!" 
They  called  aloud,  "Our  sieve  ain't  big; 
But  we  don't  care  a  button;  we  don't  care  a  fig: 
In  a  sieve  we'll  go  to  sea!" 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live: 
Theirs  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands  are  blue; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

They  sailed  away  in  a  sieve,  they  did, 

In  a  sieve  they  sailed  so  fast, 
With  only  a  beautiful  pea-green  veil 
Tied  with  a  ribbon,  by  way  of  a  sail, 

To  a  small  tobacco-pipe  mast. 
And  every  one  said  who  saw  them  go, 
"Oh!  won't  they  be  soon  upset,  you  know? 
For  the  sky  is  dark,  and  the  voyage  is  long; 
And,  happen  what  may,  it's  extremely  wrong 

In  a  sieve  to  sail  so  fast." 


The  water  it  soon  came  in,  it  did; 

The  water  it  soon  came  in: 
So,  to  keep  them  dry,  they  wrapped  their  feet 
In  a  pinky  paper  all  folded  neat: 

And  they  fastened  it  down  with  a  pin. 
And  they  passed  the  night  in  a  crockery-jar; 
And  each  of  them  said,  "How  wise  we  are! 


JUST  NONSENSE  129 

Though  the  sky  be  dark,  and  the  voyage  be  long, 
Yet  we  never  can  think  we  were  rash  or  wrong, 
While  round  in  our  sieve  we  spin." 

And  all  night  long  they  sailed  away; 

And,  when  the  sun  went  down, 
They  whistled  and  warbled  a  moony  song 
To  the  echoing  sound  of  a  coppery  gong, 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown: 
"O  Timballoo! '  How  happy  we  are 
When  we  live  in  a  sieve  and  a  crockery -jar! 
And  all  night  long,  in  the  moonlight  pale, 
We  sail  away  with  a  pea-green  sail 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown." 


They  sailed  to  the  Western  Sea,  they  did, — • 

To  a  land  all  covered  with  trees: 
And  they  bought  an  owl,  and  a  useful  cart, 
And  a  pound  of  rice,  and  a  cranberry-tart, 

And  a  hive  of  silvery  bees; 

And  they  bought  a  pig,  and  some  green  jackdaws, 
And  a  lovely  monkey  with  lollipop  paws, 
And  forty  bottles  of  ring-bo-ree, 

And  no  end  of  Stilton  cheese. 

And  in  twenty  years  they  all  came  back, — 

In  twenty  years  or  more; 

And  every  one  said,  "How  tall  they've  grown! 
For  they've  been  to  the  Lakes,  and  the  Terrible  Zone, 

And  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 
And  they  drank  their  health,  and  gave  them  a  feast 
Of  dumplings  made  of  beautiful  yeast; 
And  every  one  said,  "If  we  only  live, 
We,  too,  will  go  to  sea  in  a  sieve, 

To  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 


1 30  JUST  NONSENSE 

Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live: 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands  are  blue; 

And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

Edward  Lear 


THE  OWL  AND  THE  PUSSY-CAT 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-cat  went  to  sea 

In  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat: 
They  took  some  honey,  and  plenty  of  money 

Wrapped  up  in  a  five-pound  note. 
The  Owl  looked  up  to  the  stars  above, 

And  sang  to  a  small  guitar, 
"O  lovely  Pussy,  O  Pussy,  my  love, 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are!" 

Pussy  said  to  the  Owl,  "You  elegant  fowl, 

How  charmingly  sweet  you  sing! 
Oh!  let  us  be  married;  too  long  we  have  tarried: 

But  what  shall  we  do  for  a  ring?" 
They  sailed  away,  for  a  year  and  a  day, 

To  the  land  where  the  bong-tree  grows; 
And  there  in  a  wood  a  Piggy-wig  stood, 

With  a  ring  at  the  end  of  his  nose. 

"Dear  Pig,  are  you  willing  to  sell  for  one  shilling 

Your  ring?"    Said  the  Piggy,  "I  will." 
So  they  took  it  away,  and  were  married  next  day 

By  the  Turkey  who  lives  on  the  hill. 
They  dined  on  mince  and  slices  of  quince, 

Which  they  ate  with  a  runcible  spoon; 
And  hand  in  hand,  on  the  edge  of  the  sand, 

They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Edward  Lear 


JUST  NONSENSE  131 


THE  POBBLE  WHO  HAS  NO  TOES 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 

Had  once  as  many  as  we; 
When  they  said,  "Some  day  you  may  lose  them  all;" 

He  replied,  "Fish  fiddle-de-dee!" 
And  his  Aunt  Jobiska  made  him  drink 
Lavender  water  tinged  with  pink, 
For  she  said,  "The  World  in  general  knows 
There's  nothing  so  good  for  a  Pobble's  toes!" 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 

Swam  across  the  Bristol  Channel; 
But  before  he  set  out  he  wrapped  his  nose 

In  a  piece  of  scarlet  flannel. 
For  his  Aunt  Jobiska  said,  "No  harm 
Can  come  to  his  toes  if  his  nose  is  warm; 
And  it's  perfectly  known  that  a  Pobble's  toes 
Are  safe, — provided  he  minds  his  nose." 

The  Pobble  swam  fast  and  well, 

And  when  boats  or  ships  came  near  him, 
He  tinkledy-binkledy-winkled  a  bell, 

So  that  all  the  world  could  hear  him. 
And  all  the  Sailors  and  Admirals  cried, 
When  they  saw  him  nearing  the  further  side, — 
"He  has  gone  to  fish  for  his  Aunt  Jobiska's 
Runcible  Cat  with  crimson  whiskers!" 

But  before  he  touched  the  shore, — 

The  shore  of  the  Bristol  Channel, — 
A  sea-green  Porpoise  carried  away 

His  wrapper  of  scarlet  flannel. 
And  when  he  came  to  observe  his  feet, 
Formerly  garnished  with  toes  so  neat, 


132 


JUST  NONSENSE 


His  face  at  once  became  forlorn 

On  perceiving  that  all  his  toes  were  gone! 

And  nobody  ever  knew, 

From  that  dark  day  to  the  present, 
Whoso  had  taken  the  Pobble's  toes, 

In  a  manner  so  far  from  pleasant. 
Whether  the  shrimps  or  crawfish  gray, 
Or  crafty  Mermaids  stole  them  away — 
Nobody  knew;  and  nobody  knows 
How  the  Pobble  was  robbed  of  his  twice  five  toes! 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 

Was  placed  in  a  friendly  Bark, 
And  they  rowed  him  back,  and  carried  him  up 

To  his  Aunt  Jobiska's  Park. 
And  she  made  him  a  feast,  at  his  earnest  wish, 
Of  eggs  and  buttercups  fried  with  fish; 
And  she  said,  "It's  a  fact  the  whole  world  knows, 
That  Pobbles  are  happier  without  their  toes." 

Edward  Lear 


THE  TABLE  AND  THE  CHAIR 

Said  the  Table  to  the  Chair, 
"You  can  hardly  be  aware 
How  I  suffer  from  the  heat 
And  from  chilblains  on  my  feet. 
If  we  took  a  little  walk, 
We  might  have  a  little  talk; 
Pray  let  us  take  the  air," 
Said  the  Table  to  the  Chair. 


Said  the  Chair  unto  the  Table, 
"Now,  you  know  we  are  not  able: 


JUST  NONSENSE  1 33 

How  foolishly  you  talk, 
When  you  know  we  cannot  walk!" 
Said  the  Table  with  a  sigh, 
"It  can  do  no  harm  to  try. 
I've  as  many  legs  as  you: 
Why  can't  we  walk  on  two?" 

So  they  both  went  slowly  down, 
And  walked  about  the  town 
With  a  cheerful  bumpy  sound 
As  they  toddled  round  and  round; 
And  everybody  cried, 
As  they  hastened  to  their  side, 
"See!  the  Table  and  the  Chair 
Have  come  out  to  take  the  air!" 

But  in  going  down  an  alley 
To  a  castle  in  a  valley, 
They  completely  lost  their  way, 
And  wandered  all  the  day; 
Till,  to  see  them  safely  back, 
They  paid  a  Ducky-quack, 
And  a  Beetle,  and  a  Mouse, 
Who  took  them  to  their  house. 

Then  they  whispered  to  each  other, 
"O  delightful  little  brother, 
What  a  lovely  walk  we've  taken! 
Let  us  dine  on  beans  and  bacon!" 
So  the  Ducky  and  the  leetle 
Browny-Mousy  and  the  Beetle 
Dined,  and  danced  upon  their  heads 
Till  they  toddled  to  their  beds. 

Edward  Lear 


r34 


JUST  NONSENSE 


THE  WHITING  AND  THE  SNAIL 

"Will  you  walk  a  little  faster?"  said  a  whiting  to  a  snail, 
"There's  a  porpoise  close  behind  us,  and  he's  treading  on 

my  tail, 

See  how  eagerly  the  lobsters  and  the  turtles  all  advance! 
They  are  waiting  on  the  shingle — will  you  come  and  join 

the  dance? 
Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  will  you  join 

the  dance? 
Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  won't  you  join 

the  dance? 

"You  can  really  have  no  notion  how  delightful  it  will  be 
When  they  take  us  up  and  throw  us,  with  the  lobsters,  out 

to  sea!" 
But  the  snail  replied,  "Too  far,  too  far!"  and  gave  a  look 

askance — 
Said  he  thanked  the  whiting  kindly,  but  he  would  not  join 

the  dance, 
Would  not,  could  not,  would  not,  could  not,  would  not 

join  the  dance. 
Would  not,  could  not,  would  not,  could  not,  could  not 

join  the  dance. 

"What  matters  it  how  far  we  go?"  his  scaly  friend  replied. 
"There    is    another    shore,    you    know,    upon   the   other 

side. 

The  further  off  from  England  the  nearer  is  to  France- 
Then  turn  not  pale,  beloved  snail,  but  come  and  join  the 

dance. 
Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  will  you  join 

the  dance? 

Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  won't  you  join 
the  dance?"   " 

Lewis  Carroll 


JUST  NONSENSE  135 


THE  WALRUS  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

The  sun  was  shining  on  the  sea, 

Shining  with  all  his  might: 
He  did  his  very  best  to  make 

The  billows  smooth  and  bright — 
And  this  was  odd,  because  it  was 

The  middle  of  the  night. 

The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter 

Were  walking  close  at  hand: 
They  wept  like  anything  to  see 

Such  quantities  of  sand: 
"If  this  were  only  cleared  away," 

They  said,  "it  would  be  grand!" 

"If  seven  maids  with  seven  mops 

Swept  it  for  a  half  year, 
Do  you  suppose,"  the  Walrus  said, 

"That  they  could  get  it  clear?" 
"I  doubt  it,"  said  the  Carpenter, 

And  shed  a  bitter  tear. 

"O  Oysters,  come  and  walk  with  us!" 

The  Walrus  did  beseech. 
"A  pleasant  talk,  a  pleasant  walk, 

Along  the  briny  beach: 
We  cannot  do  with  more  than  four. 

To  give  a  hand  to  each." 

The  eldest  Oyster  looked  at  him, 

But  never  a  word  he  said: 
The  eldest  Oyster  winked  his  eye, 

And  shook  his  heavy  head- 
Meaning  to  say  he  did  not  choose 

To  leave  the  oyster-bed. 


136  JUST  NONSENSE 

e 

But  four  young  Oysters  hurried  up, 

All  eager  for  the  treat: 
Their  coats  were  brushed,  their  faces  washed, 

Their  shoes  were  clean  and  neat — 
And  this  was  odd,  because,  you  know, 

They  hadn't  any  feet. 

Four  other  Oysters  followed  them, 

And  yet  another  four; 
And  thick  and  fast  they  came  at  last, 

And  more,  and  more,  and  more — 
All  hopping  through  the  frothy  waves, 

And  scrambling  to  the  shore. 

The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter 

Walked  on  a  mile  or  so, 
And  then  they  rested  on  a  rock 

Conveniently  low: 
And  all  the  little  Oysters  stood 

And  waited  in  a  row. 

"The  time  has  come,"  the  Walrus  said, 

"To  talk  of  many  things: 
Of  shoes — and  ships — and  sealing  wax — 

Of  cabbages — and  kings— 
And  why  the  sea  is  boiling  hot— 

And  whether  pigs  have  wings." 

"But  wait  a  bit,"  the  Oysters  cried, . 

"Before  we  have  our  chat; 
For  some  of  us  are  out  of  breath, 

And  all  of  us  are  fat!" 
"No  hurry!"  said  the  Carpenter. 

They  thanked  him  much  for  that. 

"A  loaf  of  bread,"  the  Walrus  said, 
"Is  what  we  chiefly  need: 


JUST  NONSENSE  137 

Pepper  and  vinegar  besides 

Are  very  good  indeed— 
Now,  if  you're  ready,  Oysters  dear, 

We  can  begin  to  feed." 

"But  not  on  us!"  the  Oysters  cried, 

Turning  a  little  blue. 
"After  such  kindness,  that  would  be 

A  dismal  thing  to  do!" 
"The  night  is  fine,"  the  Walrus  said. 

"Do  you  admire  the  view? 

"It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  come! 

And  you  are  very  nice!" 
The  Carpenter  said  nothing  but 

"Cut  us  another  slice. 
I  wish  you  were  not  quite  so  deaf— 

I've  had  to  ask  you  twice!" 

"It  seems  a  shame,"  the  Walrus  said, 

"To  play  them  such  a  trick, 
After  we've  brought  them  out  so  far, 

And  made  them  trot  so  quick!" 
The  Carpenter  said  nothing  but 

"The  butter's  spread  too  thick!" 

"I  weep  for  you,"  the  Walrus  said: 

"I  deeply  sympathize." 
With  sobs  and  tears  he  sorted  out 

Those  of  the  largest  size, 
Holding  his  pocket-handkerchief 

Before  his  streaming  eyes. 

"0  Oysters,"  said  the  Carpenter, 
"You've  had  a  pleasant  run! 


1 38  JUST  NONSENSE 

Shall  we  be  trotting  home  again?" 
But  answer  came  there  none — 

And  this  was  scarcely  odd,  because 
They'd  eaten  every  one. 

Lewis  Carroll 


"HE  THOUGHT  HE  SAW" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Buffalo 

Upon  the  chimney-piece: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

His  Sister's  Husband's  Niece. 
''Unless  you  leave  this  house,"  he  said, 

"I'll  send  for  the  Police!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Rattlesnake 
That  questioned  him  in  Greek: 

He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 
The  Middle  of  Next  Week. 

"The  one  thing  I  regret,"  he  said, 
"Is  that  it  cannot  speak!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Banker's  Clerk 

Descending  from  the  'bus: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Hippopotamus. 
"If  this  should  stay  to  dine,"  he  said, 

"There  won't  be  much  for  us!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Kangaroo 

That  worked  a  coffee-mill: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Vegetable-Pill. 
"Were  I  to  swallow  this,"  he  said, 

"I  should  be  very  ill!" 


JUST  NONSENSE 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Coach-and-Four 

That  stood  beside  his  bed: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Bear  without  a  Head. 
"Poor  thing,"  he  said,  "poor  silly  thing! 

It's  waiting  to  be  fed!" 

He  thought  he  saw  an  Albatross 

That  fluttered  round  the  lamp: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Penny-Postage-Stamp. 
"You'd  best  be  getting  home,"  he  said: 

"The  nights  are  very  damp!" 

Lewis  Carroll 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, — 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, — 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes: 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, — 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 


140  JUST  NONSENSE 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 

The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye: 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied: — 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


OLD  GRIMES 

Old  Grimes  is  dead;  that  good  old  man 

We  never  shall  see  more: 
He  used  to  wear  a  long  black  coat, 

All  buttoned  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 
His  feelings  all  were  true; 

His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray- 
He  wore  it  in  a  queue. 

Whene'er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 
His  breast  with  pity  burned; 

The  large,  round  head  upon  his  cane 
From  ivory  was  turned. 


JUST  NONSENSE  141 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all; 

He  knew  no  base  design: 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small, 

His  nose  was  aquiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind, 

In  friendship  he  was  true; 
His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind, 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 

He  passed  securely  o'er, 
And  never  wore  a  pair  of  boots 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 

But  good  old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest, 

Nor  fears  misfortune's  frown: 
He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest — 

The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find, 

And  pay  it  its  desert: 
He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind, 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse — 

Was  sociable  and  gay: 
He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze, 

He  did  not  bring  to  view, 
Nor  made  a  noise,  town-meeting  days, 

As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 

In  trust  to  fortune's  chances, 
But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 


142  JUST  NONSENSE 

Thus  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares, 

His  peaceful  moments  ran; 
And  everybody  said  he  was 

A  fine  old  gentleman. 

Albert  Gorton  Greene 


A  TRAGIC  STORY 

There  lived  a  sage  in  days  of  yore, 
And  he  a  handsome  pigtail  wore; 
But  wondered  much,  and  sorrowed  more, 
Because  it  hung  behind  him. 

He  mused  upon  this  curious  case, 
And  swore  he'd  change  the  pigtail's  place, 
And  have  it  hanging  at  his  face, 
Not  dangling  there  behind  him. 

Says  he,  "The  mystery  I've  found, — 
I'll  turn  me  round," — he  turned  him  round; 
But  still  it  hung  behind  him. 

Then  round  and  round,  and  out  and  in, 
All  day  the  puzzled  sage  did  spin; 
In  vain — it  mattered  not  a  pin,— 
The  pigtail  hung  behind  him. 

And  right,  and  left,  and  round  about, 
And  up,  and  down,  and  in,  and  out 
He  turned;  but  still  the  pigtail  stout 
Hung  steadily  behind  him. 

And  though  his  efforts  never  slack, 
And  though  he  twist,  and  twirl,  and  tack, 
Alasi  still  faithful  to  his  back, 
The  pigtail  hangs  behind  him. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


JUST  NONSENSE  143 


LITTLE  BILLEE 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 
But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  gorging  Jack  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 
Now  when  they  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 
They'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"With  one  another  we  shouldn't  agree! 
There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and  tender, 
We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat  he." 

"Oh!  Billy,  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 
When  Bill  received  this  information 
He  used  his  pocket  handkerchie. 

"First  let  me  say  my  catechism, 
Which  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  me." 
"Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top  gallant  mast, 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 
He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  commandment 
When  up  he  jumps.    "There's  land  I  see: 


144  JUST  NONSENSE 

"Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 
And  North  and  South  Amerikee: 
There's  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor, 
With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C.  B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's, 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee: 
But  as  for  little  Bill  he  made  him 
The  Captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE 

The  night  was  thick  and  hazy, 

When  the  Piccadilly  Daisy 
Carried  down  the  crew  and  captain  in  the  sea; 

And  I  think  the  water  drowned  'em, 

For  they  never,  never  found  'em, 
And  I  know  they  didn't  come  ashore  with  me. 

Oh!  'twas  very  sad  and  lonely 

When  I  found  myself  the  only 
Population  on  this  cultivated  shore; 

But  I've  made  a  little  tavern 

In  a  rocky  little  cavern, 
And  I  sit  and  watch  for  people  at  the  door. 

I  spent  no  time  in  looking 

For  a  girl  to  do  my  cooking, 
As  I'm  quite  a  clever  hand  at  making  stews; 

But  I  had  that  fellow  Friday 

Just  to  keep  the  tavern  tidy, 
And  to  put  a  Sunday  polish  on  my  shoes. 

I  have  a  little  garden 

That  I'm  cultivating  lard  in, 


JUST  NONSENSE  145 

As  the  things  I  eat  are  rather  tough  and  dry; 

For  I  live  on  toasted  lizards, 

Prickly  pears,  and  parrot  gizzards, 
And  I'm  really  very  fond  of  beetle-pie. 

The  clothes  I  had  were  furry, 

And  it  made  me  fret  and  worry 
When  I  found  the  moths  were  eating  off  the  hair; 

And  I  had  to  scrape  and  sand  'em, 

And  I  boiled  'em  and  I  tanned  'em, 
Till  I  got  the  fine  morocco  suit  I  wear. 

I  sometimes  seek  diversion 

In  a  family  excursion 
With  the  few  domestic  animals  you  see; 

And  we  take  along  a  carrot 

As  refreshments  for  the  parrot, 
And  a  little  can  of  jungleberry  tea. 

Then  we  gather  as  we  travel 

Bits  of  moss  and  dirty  gravel, 
And  we  chip  off  little  specimens  of  stone; 

And  we  carry  home  as  prizes 

Funny  bugs  of  handy  sizes, 
Just  to  give  the  day  a  scientific  tone. 

If  the  roads  are  wet  and  muddy, 

We  remain  at  home  and  study, — 
For  the  Goat  is  very  clever  at  a  sum, — 

And  the  Dog,  instead  of  fighting, 

Studies  ornamental  writing, 
While  the  Cat  is  taking  lessons  on  the  drum. 

We  retire  at  eleven, 

And  we  rise  again  at  seven; 


146  JUST  NONSENSE 

And  I  wish  to  call  attention,  as  I  close, 
To  the  fact  that  all  the  scholars 
Are  correct  about  their  collars, 

And  particular  in  turning  out  their  toes. 

Charles  Edward  Carry  I 

THE  DUEL 

The  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 

Side  by  side  on  the  table  sat; 

'Twas  half  past  twelve,  and  (what  do  you  think!) 

Nor  one  nor  t'other  had  slept  a  wink! 

The  old  Dutch  clock  and  the  Chinese  plate 
Appeared  to  know  as  sure  as  fate 
There  was  going  to  be  a  terrible  spat. 
(/  wasn't  there;  I  simply  state 
What  was  told  to  me  by  the  Chinese  plate!) 

The  gingham  dog  went  "Bow-wow-wow!" 
And  the  calico  cat  replied  "Mee-ow!" 
The  air  was  littered,  an  hour  or  so, 
With  bits  of  gingham  and  calico, 

While  the  old  Dutch  clock  in  the  chimney  place 
Up  with  its  hands  before  its  face, 
For  it  always  dreaded  a  family  row! 

(Now  mind:  Vtn  only  telling  you 

What  the  old  Dutch  dock  declares  is  true!) 

The  Chinese  plate  looked  very  blue, 
And  wailed,  "Oh,  dear!  what  shall  we  do!" 
But  the  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 
Wallowed  this  way  and  tumbled  that, 
Employing  every  tooth  and  claw 
In  the  awfullest  way  you  ever  saw— 
And,  oh!  how  the  gingham  and  calico  flew! 
(Dont  fancy  I  exaggerate — 
/  got  my  news  from  the  Chinese  plate!) 


JUST  NONSENSE  147 

Next  morning,  where  the  two  had  sat 
They  found  no  trace  of  dog  or  cat: 
And  some  folks  think  unto  this  day 
That  burglars  stole  that  pair  away! 

But  the  truth  about  the  cat  and  pup 
Is  this:  they  ate  each  other  up! 
Now  what  do  you  really  think  of  that! 

(The  old  Dutch  clock  it  told  me  jo, 
And  that  is  how  I  came  to  know.) 

Eugene  Field 

IN  FOREIGN  PARTS 

When  I  lived  in  Singapore, 
It  was  something  of  a  bore 
To  receive  the  bulky  Begums  who  came  trundling  to  my 

door; 

They  kept  getting  into  tangles 
With  their  bingle-bongle-bangles, 
And  the  tiger  used  to  bite  them  as  he  sat  upon  the  floor. 

When  I  lived  in  Timbuctoo, 

Almost  everyone  I  knew 

Used  to  play  upon  the  sackbut,  singing  "toodle-doodle- 

doo," 

And  they  made  ecstatic  ballads, 
And  consumed  seductive  salads, 
Made  of  chicory  and  hickory  and  other  things  that  grew. 

When  I  lived  at  Rotterdam, 

I  possessed  a  spotted  ram, 

Who  would  never  feed  on  anything  but  hollyhocks  and 

ham; 

But  one  day  he  butted  down 
All  the  magnates  of  the  town, 
So  they  slew  him,  though  I  knew  him  to  be  gentle  as  a 

lamb. 


148  JUST  NONSENSE 

But! 

When  I  got  to  Kandahar, 

It  was  very,  very  far, 

And  the  people  came  and  said  to  me,  "How  very  plain  you 

are!" 

So  I  sailed  across  the  foam, 
And  I  toddle-waddled  home, 

And  no  more  I'll  go  a-rovering  beyond  the  harbor  bar. 

Laura  E.  Richards 


"THE  OWL  AND  THE  EEL  AND  THE  WARMING 

PAN" 


The  owl  and  the  eel  and  the  warming-pan, 
They  went  to  call  on  the  soap-fat  man. 
The  soap-fat  man  he  was  not  within: 
He'd  gone  for  a  ride  on  his  rolling-pin. 
So  they  all  came  back  by  way  of  the  town, 
And  turned  the  meeting-house  upside  down. 

Laura  E.  Richards 


I'M  GLAD 

I'm  glad  the  sky  is  painted  blue, 
And  the  earth  is  painted  green, 

With  such  a  lot  of  nice  fresh  air 
All  sandwiched  in  between. 


IF 


If  all  the  world  were  apple-pie, 

And  all  the  sea  were  ink, 
And  all  the  trees  were  bread  and  cheese, 

What  should  we  have  to  drink? 


JUST  NONSENSE  149 


CHILD'S  NATURAL  HISTORY 

A    SEAL 

See,  Chil-dren,  the  Fur-bear-ing  Seal; 
Ob-serve  his  mis-di-rect-ed  zeal; 
He  dines  with  most  ab-ste-mi-ous  care 
On  Fish,  Ice  Water  and  Fresh  Air, 
A-void-ing  cond-i-ments  or  spice 
For  fear  his  fur  should  not  be  nice 
And  fine  and  soft  and  smooth  and  meet 
For  Broad-way  or  for  Re-gent  Street. 
And  yet  some-how  I  often  feel 
(Though  for  the  kind  Fur-bear-ing  Seal 
I  harbor  a  Re-spect  Pro-found) 
He  runs  Fur-bear-ance  in  the  ground. 

THE    YAK 

This  is  the  Yak,  so  neg-li-gee; 
His  coif-fure's  like  a  stack  of  hay; 
He  lives  so  far  from  Any-where, 
I  fear  the  Yak  neg-lects  his  hair, 
And  thinks,  since  there  is  none  to  see, 
What  mat-ter  how  un-kempt  he  be: 
How  would  he  feel  if  he  but  knew 
That  in  this  Pic-ture-book  I  drew 
His  Phys-i-og-no-my  un-shorn, 
For  chil-dren  to  de-ride  and  scorn? 

Oliver  Her  ford 

THE  FROG 

Be  kind  and  tender  to  the  Frog, 

And  do  not  call  him  names, 
As  "Slimy-skin,"  or  "Polly-wog," 

Or  likewise,  "Uncle  James," 


150  JUST  NONSENSE 

Or  "Gape-a-grin,"  or  "  Toad-gone-wrong,' 

Or  "Billy  Bandy-knees:" 
The  Frog  is  justly  sensitive 

To  epithets  like  these. 

No  animal  will  more  repay 

A  treatment  kind  and  fair, 
At  least  so  lonely  people  say 
Who  keep  a  Frog  (and,  by  the  way, 

They  are  extremely  rare). 


II Hair e  Belloc 


THE  PYTHON 

A  Python  I  should  not  advise, — 
It  needs  a  doctor  for  its  eyes, 

And  has  the  measles  yearly. 
However,  if  you  feel  inclined 
To  get  one  (to  improve  your  mind, 

And  not  from  fashion  merely), 
Allow  no  music  near  its  cage; 
And  when  it  flies  into  a  rage, 

Chastise  it  most  severely. 

I  had  an  Aunt  in  Yucatan 

Who  bought  a  Python  from  a  man 

And  kept  it  for  a  pet. 
She  died  because  she  never  knew 
These  simple  little  rules  and  few; — 

The  snake  is  living  yet. 

Hilaire  Belloc 

THE  YAK 

As  a  friend  to  the  children,  commend  me  the  Yak; 

You  will  find  it  exactly  the  thing; 
It  will  carry  and  fetch,  you  can  ride  on  its  back, 

Or  lead  it  about  with  a  string. 


JUST  NONSENSE  151 

The  Tartar  who  dwells  on  the  plains  of  Thibet 

(A  desolate  region  of  snow), 
Has  for  centuries  made  it  a  nursery  pet, 

And  surely  the  Tartar  should  know! 

Then  tell  your  papa  where  the  Yak  can  be  got, 

And  if  he  is  awfully  rich, 
He  will  buy  you  the  creature — or  else  he  will  not, 

(I  cannot  be  positive  which). 

Hilaire  Belloc 


SAGE  COUNSEL 

The  Lion  is  the  beast  to  fight: 

He  leaps  along  the  plain, 
And  if  you  run  with  all  your  might, 
He  runs  with  all  his  mane. 
I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  Hottentot, 
But  if  I  were,  with  outward  cal-lum 
I'd  either  faint  upon  the  spot 
Or  hie  me  up  a  leafy  pal-lum. 

The  Chamois  is  the  beast  to  hunt: 

He's  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
And  when  the  Chamois  is  in  front 
The  hunter  is  behind. 

The  Tyrolese  make  famous  cheese 
And  hunt  the  Chamois  o'er  the  chaz-zums; 
I'd  choose  the  former,  if  you  please, 
For  precipices  give  me  spaz-zums. 

The  Polar  Bear  will  make  a  rug 

Almost  as  white  as  snow: 
But  if  he  gets  you  in  his  hug, 

He  rarely  lets  you  go. 


152  JUST  NONSENSE 

And  polar  ice  looks  very  nice, 
With  all  the  colors  of  a  prissum: 
But,  if  you'll  follow  my  advice, 
Stay  home  and  learn  your  catechissum. 

Arthur  Quiller-Couch 


THE  FASTIDIOUS  SERPENT 

There  was  a  snake  that  dwelt  in  Skye, 

Over  the  misty  sea,  oh; 
He  lived  upon  nothing  but  gooseberry-pie 

For  breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea,  oh. 

Now  gooseberry-pie — as  is  very  well  known — 

Over  the  misty  sea,  oh, 
Is  not  to  be  found  under  every  stone, 

Nor  yet  upon  every  tree,  oh. 

And  being  so  ill  to  please  with  his  meat, 

Over  the  misty  sea,  oh, 
The  snake  had  sometimes  nothing  to  eat, 

And  an  angry  snake  was  he,  oh. 

Then  he'd  flick  his  tongue  and  his  head  he'd  shake, 

Over  the  misty  sea,  oh, 
Crying,  "Gooseberry-pie!    For  goodness'  sake, 

Some  gooseberry-pie  for  me,  oh!" 

And  if  gooseberry-pie  was  not  to  be  had, 

Over  the  misty  sea,  oh, 
He'd  twine  and  twist  like  an  eel  gone  mad 

Or  a  worm  just  stung  by  a  bee,  oh. 

But  though  he  might  shout  and  wriggle  about, 

Over  the  misty  sea,  oh, 
The  snake  had  often  to  go  without 

His  breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea,  oh. 

Henry  Johnstone 


JUST  NONSENSE  153 


THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  CAMEL 

Canary-birds  feed  on  sugar  and  seed, 

Parrots  have  crackers  to  crunch; 
And  as  for  poodles,  they  tell  me  the  noodles 
Have  chickens  and  cream  for  their  lunch. 
But  there's  never  a  question 
About  MY  digestion — 
ANYTHING  does  for  me! 

Cats,  you're  aware,  can  repose  in  a  chair, 

Chickens  can  roost  upon  rails; 
Puppies  are  able  to  sleep  in  a  stable, 
And  oysters  can  slumber  in  pails. 
But  no  one  supposes 
A  poor  Camel  dozes — 
ANY  PLACE  does  for  me! 

Lambs  are  enclosed  where  it's  never  exposed, 

Coops  are  constructed  for  hens; 
Kittens  are  treated  to  houses  well  heated, 
And  pigs  are  protected  by  pens. 
But  a  Camel  comes  handy 
Wherever  it's  sandy— 
ANYWHERE  does  for  me! 

People  would  laugh  if  you  rode  a  giraffe, 

Or  mounted  the  back  of  an  ox; 
It's  nobody's  habit  to  ride  on  a  rabbit, 
Or  try  to  bestraddle  a  fox. 
But  as  for  a  Camel,  he's 
Ridden  by  families — 
ANY  LOAD  does  for  me! 

A  snake  is  as  round  as  a  hole  in  the  ground, 
And  weasels  are  wavy  and  sleek; 


154  JUST  NONSENSE 

And  no  alligator  could  ever  be  straighter 
Than  lizards  that  live  in  a  creek, 
But  a  Camel's  all  lumpy 
And  bumpy  and  humpy — 
ANY  SHAPE  does  for  me! 

Charles  Edward  Carry  I 


THE  PURPLE  COW 

I  never  Saw  a  Purple  Cow; 

I  never  Hope  to  See  One; 
But  I  can  Tell  you,  Anyhow, 

I'd  rather  See  than  Be  One. 

Celett  Burgess 


Kirytandf 


THE  FAIRY  BOOK 

When  Mother  takes  the  Fairy  Book 

And  we  curl  up  to  hear, 
Tis  "All  aboard  for  Fairyland!" 

Which  seems  to  be  so  near. 

For  soon  we  reach  the  pleasant  place 

Of  Once  Upon  a  Time, 
Where  birdies  sing  the  hour  of  day, 

And  flowers  talk  in  rhyme; 

Where  Bobby  is  a  velvet  Prince, 

And  where  I  am  a  Queen; 
Where  one  can  talk  with  animals, 

And  walk  about  unseen; 

Where  Little  People  live  in  nuts, 

And  ride  on  butterflies, 
And  wonders  kindly  come  to  pass 

Before  your  very  eyes; 

Where  candy  grows  on  every  bush, 

And  playthings  on  the  trees, 
And  visitors  pick  basketfuls 

As  often  as  they  please. 

It  is  the  nicest  time  of  day— 

Though  Bedtime  is  so  near, — 
When  Mother  takes  the  Fairy  Book 

And  we  curl  up  to  hear. 

Abbie  Farwdl  Brown 


FAIRYLAND 

THE  FAIRIES 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home, 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs., 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 


158  FAIRYLAND 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
If  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 


William  Allingham 


FAIRYLAND  159 

FAIRY  SONGS 
I 

From  "  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  " 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Through  bush,  through  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Through  flood,  through  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moone's  sphere; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green: 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors: 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

II 

From  "  The  Tempest  " 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily: 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

William  Shakespeare 

THE  FAIRY  THRALL 

On  gossamer  nights  when  the  moon  is  low, 

And  stars  in  the  mist  are  hiding, 
Over  the  hill  where  the  foxgloves  grow 


160  FAIRYLAND 

You  may  see  the  fairies  riding. 

Kling!  Klang!  Kling! 

Their  stirrups  and  their  bridles  ring, 
And  their  horns  are  loud  and  their  bugles  blow, 
When  the  moon  is  low. 

They  sweep  through  the  night  like  a  whistling  wind, 

They  pass  and  have  left  no  traces; 
But  one  of  them  lingers  far  behind 
The  flight  of  the  fairy  faces. 
She  makes  no  moan, 
She  sorrows  in  the  dark  alone, 
She  wails  for  the  love  of  human  kind, 
Like  a  whistling  wind. 

"Ah!  why  did  I  roam  where  the  elfins  ride, 

Their  glimmering  steps  to  follow? 
They  bore  me  far  from  my  loved  one's  side, 
To  wander  o'er  hill  and  hollow. 
Kling!  Klang!  Kling! 
Their  stirrups  and  their  bridles  ring, 
But  my  heart  is  cold  in  the  cold  night-tide, 
Where  the  elfins  ride." 

Mary  C.  G.  Byron 


QUEEN  MAB 

A  little  fairy  comes  at  night, 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  hair  is  brown, 
With  silver  spots  upon  her  wings, 

And  from  the  moon  she  flutters  down. 

She  has  a  little  silver  wand, 

And  when  a  good  child  goes  to  bed 

She  waves  her  hand  from  right  to  left, 
And  makes  a  circle  round  its  head. 


FAIRYLAND  161 

And  then  it  dreams  of  pleasant  things, 

Of  fountains  filled  with  fairy  fish, 
And  trees  that  bear  delicious  fruit, 

And  bow  their  branches  at  a  wish: 

Of  arbors  filled  with  dainty  scents 
From  lovely  flowers  that  never  fade; 

Bright  flies  that  glitter  in  the  sun, 
And  glow-worms  shining  in  the  shade: 

And  talking  birds  with  gifted  tongues, 

For  singing  songs  and  telling  tales, 
And  pretty  dwarfs  to  show  the  way 

Through  fairy  hills  and  fairy  dales. 

But  when  a  bad  child  goes  to  bed, 

From  left  to  right  she  weaves  her  rings, 

And  then  it  dreams  all  through  the  night 
Of  only  ugly  horrid  things! 

Then  lions  come  with  glaring  eyes, 

And  tigers  growl,  a  dreadful  noise, 
And  ogres  draw  their  cruel  knives, 

To  shed  the  blood  of  girls  and  boys. 

Then  stormy  waves  rush  on  to  drown, 
Or  raging  flames  come  scorching  round, 

Fierce  dragons  hover  in  the  air, 

And  serpents  crawl  along  the  ground. 

Then  wicked  children  wake  and  weep, 
And  wish  the  long  black  gloom  away; 

But  good  ones  love  the  dark,  and  find 
The  night  as  pleasant  as  the  day. 

Thomas  Hood 


162  FAIRYLAND 


v/ 


THE  ELF  AND  THE  DORMOUSE 

Under  a  toadstool  crept  a  wee  Elf, 
Out  of  the  rain,  to  shelter  himself. 

Under  the  toadstool  sound  asleep, 
Sat  a  big  Dormouse  all  in  a  heap. 

Trembled  the  wee  Elf,  frightened,  and  yet 
Fearing  to  fly  away  lest  he  get  wet. 

To  the  next  shelter — maybe  a  mile! 
Sudden  the  wee  Elf  smiled  a  wee  smile, 

Tugged  till  the  toadstool  toppled  in  two. 
Holding  it  over  him,  gayly  he  flew. 

Soon  he  was  safe  home,  dry  as  could  be. 

Soon  woke  the  Dormouse — "Good  gracious  me! 

"Where  is  my  toadstool?"  loud  he  lamented. 
— And  that's  how  umbrellas  first  were  invented. 

Oliver  Her  ford 

THE  LITTLE  ELF 

I  met  a  little  Elf-man,  once, 

Down  where  the  lilies  blow. 
I  asked  him  why  he  was  so  small, 

And  why  he  didn't  grow. 

He  slightly  frowned,  and  with  his  eye 
He  looked  me  through  and  through. 

"I'm  quite  as  big  for  me,"  said  he, 
"As  you  are  big  for  you." 

John  Kendrick  Bangs 


FAIRYLAND  163 


THE  VISITOR 

The  white  goat  Amaryllis, 

She  wandered  at  her  will 
At  time  of  daffodillies 

Afar  and  up  the  hill: 
We  hunted  and  we  holloa'd 

And  back  she  came  at  dawn, 
But  what  d'you  think  had  followed  ?- 

A  little,  pagan  Faun! 

His  face  was  like  a  berry, 

His  ears  were  high  and  pricked: 
Tip-tap — his  hoofs  came  merry 

As  up  the  path  he  clicked; 
A  junket  for  his  winning 

We  set  in  dairy  delf ; 
He  eat  it — peart  and  grinning 

As  Christian  as  yourself! 

He  stayed  about  the  steading 

A  fortnight,  say,  or  more; 
A  blanket  for  his  bedding 

We  spread  beside  the  door; 
And  when  the  cocks  crowed  clearly 

Before  the  dawn  was  ripe, 
He'd  call  the  milkmaids  cheerly 

Upon  a  reedy  pipe! 

That  fortnight  of  his  staying 

The  work  went  smooth  as  silk: 
The  hens  were  all  in  laying, 

The  cows  were  all  in  milk; 
And  then — and  then  one  morning 

The  maids  woke  up  at  day 
Without  his  oaten  warning, — 

And  found  he'd  gone  away. 


164  FAIRYLAND 

He  left  no  trace  behind  him; 

But  still  the  milkmaids  deem 
That  they,  perhaps,  may  find  him 

With  butter  and  with  cream: 
Beside  the  door  they  set  them 

In  bowl  and  golden  pat, 
But  no  one  comes  to  get  them — 

Unless,  maybe,  the  cat. 

The  white  goat  Amaryllis, 

She  wanders  at  her  will 
At  time  of  daffodillies, 

Away  up  Woolcombe  hill; 
She  stays  until  the  morrow, 

Then  back  she  comes  at  dawn; 
But  never — to  our  sorrow — 

The  little,  pagan  Faun. 

P.  R.  Chalmers 


THE  FAIRIES'  SHOPPING 

Where  do  you  think  the  fairies  go 
To  buy  their  blankets  ere  the  snow? 

When  Autumn  comes,  with  frosty  days, 
The  sorry,  shivering  little  Fays 
Begin  to  think  it's  time  to  creep 
Down  to  their  caves  for  Winter  sleep. 
But  first  they  come  from  far  and  near 
To  buy,  where  shops  are  not  too  dear. 

(The  wind  and  frost  bring  prices  down, 
So  Fall's  their  time  to  come  to  town!) 

Where  on  the  hill-side  rough  and  steep 
Browse  all  day  long  the  cows  and  sheep, 


FAIRYLAND  165 

The  mullein's  yellow  candles  burn 
Over  the  heads  of  dry  sweet  fern: 
All  summer  long  the  mullein  weayes 
His  soft  and  thick  and  woolly  leaves. 
Warmer  blankets  were  never  seen 
Than  these  broad  leaves  of  fuzzy  green. 

(The  cost  of  each  is  but  a  shekel 
Made  from  the  gold  of  honeysuckle!) 

To  buy  their  sheets  and  fine  white  lace, 
With  which  to  trim  a  pillow-case, 
They  only  have  to  go  next  door, 
Where  stands  a  sleek  brown  spider's  store, 
And  there  they  find  the  misty  threads 
Ready  to  cut  into  sheets  and  spreads; 
Then,  for  a  pillow,  pluck  with  care 
Some  soft-winged  seeds  as  light  as  air; 
Just  what  they  want  the  thistle  brings, 
But  thistles  are  such  surly  things — 
And  so,  though  it  is  somewhat  high, 
The  clematis  the  Fairies  buy. 

The  only  bedsteads  that  they  need 
Are  silky  pods  of  ripe  milk-weed, 
With  hangings  of  the  dearest  things — 
Autumn  leaves,  or  butterflies'  wings! 
And  dandelions'  fuzzy  heads 
They  use  to  stuff  their  featherbeds; 
And  yellow  snapdragons  supply 
The  nightcaps  that  the  Fairies  buy, 
To  which  some  blades  of  grass  they  pin, 
And  tie  them  'neath  each  little  chin. 

Then,  shopping  done,  the  Fairies  cry, 
"Our  Summer's  gone!  oh  sweet,  good-bye!" 


166  FAIRYLAND 

And  sadly  to  their  caves  they  go, 

And  hide  away  from  Winter's  snow — 

And  then,  though  winds  and  storms  may  beat, 

The  Fairies'  sleep  is  warm  and  sweet! 

Margaret  Deland 

ALICE  BRAND 


Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 

When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds  are  in  cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"O  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

"O  Alice,  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 

And  'twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 
That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight, 

Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive, 
For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small, 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughtered  deer, 

To  keep  the  cold  away." 

"O  Richard!  if  my  brother  died, 

'Twas  but  a  fatal  chance; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 


FAIRYLAND  167 

"If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear, 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet  gray, 

As  gay  the  forest-green. 

"And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land, 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 

II 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing; 
On  the  beech's  pride,  and  oak's  brown  side, 

Lord  Richard's  ax  is  ringing. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  woned  within  the  hill, — 
Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruined  church, 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

"Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak, 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen  ? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 

The  fairies'  fatal  green? 

"Up,  Urgan,  up!  to  yon  mortal  hie, 

For  thou  wert  christened  man; 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  muttered  word  or  ban. 

"Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  withered  heart, 

The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would  part, 

Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die  !  " 


168  FAIRYLAND 

in 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 
Though  the  birds  have  stilled  their  singing; 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 
And  Richard  his  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf, 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 
And,  as  he  crossed  and  blessed  himself, 
"I  fear  not  sign/'  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

"That  is  made  with  bloody  hands." 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear, — 
"And  if  there's  blood  upon  his  hand, 

'Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer." 

"Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then  forward  stepped  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign, — 
"And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

"And  I  conjure  thee,  Demon  elf, 

By  Him  whom  Demons  fear, 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 

And  what  thine  errand  here?" 

IV 

"'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  Fairy-land, 

When  fairy  birds  are  singing, 
When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  monarch's  side, 

With  bit  and  bridle  ringing. 


FAIRYLAND  169 

"And  gaily  shines  the  Fairy-land— 

But  all  is  glistening  show, 
Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

"And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape, 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem, 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

"It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 

When  the  Fairy  King  has  power, 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And,  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatched  away 

To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower. 

"But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 

Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 
I  might  regain  my  mortal  mold, 

As  fair  a  form  as  thine." 

She  crossed  him  once — she  crossed  him  twice — 

That  lady  was  so  brave; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue, 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  crossed  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mold, 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 

But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline  gray, 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 

Walter  Scott 


170 


FAIRYLAND 


THE  FAIRIES  OF  THE  CALDON-LOW 

A   MIDSUMMER   LEGEND 

"And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me?" 

"I've  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  midsummer  night  to  see!" 

"And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Low?" 
"I  saw  the  glad  sunshine  come  down, 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 

"And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

AllupontheCaldon-Hill?" 
"I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made, 

And  the  ears  of  the  green  corn  fill." 

"Oh  tell  me  all,  my  Mary- 
All — all  that  ever  you  know; 

For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies 
Last  night  on  the  Caldon-Low!" 

"Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother, 

And  listen,  mother  of  mine: 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

"And  their  harp-strings  rang  so  merrily 
To  their  dancing  feet  so  small; 

But,  oh!  the  words  of  their  talking 
Were  merrier  far  than  all!" 

"And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 
That  you  did  hear  them  say?" 

"I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother, 
But  let  me  have  my  way. 


FAIRYLAND  171 

"Some  of  them  played  with  the  water, 

And  rolled  it  down  the  hill; 
'And  this/  they  said,  'shall  speedily  turn 

The  poor  old  miller's  mill. 

"'For  there  has  been  no  water 

Ever  since  the  first  of  May; 
And  a  busy  man  will  the  miller  be 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day! 

u<Oh!  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 

When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise! 
The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 

Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes!' 

"And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds, 

That  sounded  over  the  hill, 
And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth, 

And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill: 

"'And  there,'  said  they,  'the  merry  winds  go 

Away  from  every  horn; 
And  they  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn: 

f"Oh,  the  poor  blind  widow — 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 
She'll  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew's  gone, 

And  the  corn  stands  tall  and  strong!' 

"And  some  they  brought  the  brown  linseed 

And  flung  it  down  the  Low: 
'And  this,'  said  they,  'by  the  sunrise 

In  the  weaver's  croft  shall  grow! 

E"Oh,  the  poor  lame  weaver! 

How  will  he  laugh  outright 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night!' 


1 72  FAIRYLAND 

"And  then  outspoke  a  brownie, 

With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin: 
'I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 

'And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

"I've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth 

And  I  want  to  spin  another — 
A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed, 
And  an  apron  for  her  mother!' 

"With  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

"And  all  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low 

The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 
And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 

That  round  about  me  lay. 

"  But,  coming  down  from  the  hill-top, 

I  heard,  afar  below, 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go! 

"And  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  field, 

And,  sure  enough,  was  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn 

All  standing  stout  and  green. 

"And  down  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole; 

To  see  if  the  flax  were  sprung; 
And  I  met  the  weaver  at  his  gate 

With  the  good  news  on  his  tongue! 

"Now,  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I  did  see; 
So,  prithee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I'm  tired  as  I  can  be!"  Mary  Howitt 


FAIRYLAND  1 73 


A  SONG  OF  SHERWOOD 

Sherwood  in  the  twilight,  is  Robin  Hood  awake? 
Gray  and  ghostly  shadows  are  gliding  through  the  brake; 
Shadows  of  the  dappled  deer,  dreaming  of  the  morn, 
Dreaming  of  a  shadowy  man  that  winds  a  shadowy  horn. 

Robin  Hood  is  here  again:  all  his  merry  thieves 

Hear  a  ghostly  bugle-note  shivering  through  the  leaves, 

Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Merry,  merry  England  has  kissed  the  lips  of  June: 
All  the  wings  of  fairyland  were  here  beneath  the  moon, 
Like  a  flight  of  rose-leaves  fluttering  in  a  mist 
Of  opal  and  ruby  and  pearl  and  amethyst. 

Merry,  merry  England  is  waking  as  of  old, 

With  eyes  of  blither  hazel  and  hair  of  brighter  gold: 

For  Robin  Hood  is  here  again  beneath  the  bursting  spray 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Love  is  in  the  greenwood  building  him  a  house 
Of  wild  rose  and  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle  boughs: 
Love  is  in  the  greenwood,  dawn  is  in  the  skies, 
And  Marian  is  waiting  with  a  glory  in  her  eyes. 

Hark!    The  dazzled  laverock  climbs  the  golden  steep! 

Marian  is  waiting:  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Round  the  fairy  grass-rings  frolic  elf  and  fay, 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Oberon,  Oberon,  rake  away  the  gold, 
Rake  away  the  red  leaves,  roll  away  the  mould, 
Rake  away  the  gold  leaves,  roll  away  the  red, 
And  wake  Will  Scarlett  from  his  leafy  forest  bed. 


1 74  FAIRYLAND 

Friar  Tuck  and  Little  John  are  riding  down  together 
With    quarter-staff   and    drinking-can    and    gray    goose- 
feather; 

The  dead  are  coming  back  again,  the  years  are  rolled  away 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Softly  over  Sherwood  the  south  wind  blows; 

All  the  heart  of  England  hid  in  every  rose 

Hears  across  the  greenwood  the  sunny  whisper  leap, 

Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep  ? 

Hark,  the  voice  of  England  wakes  him  as  of  old 
And,  shattering  the  silence  with  a  cry  of  brighter  gold, 
Bugles  in  the  greenwood  echo  from  the  steep, 
Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Where  the  deer  are  gliding  down  the  shadowy  glen 
All  across  the  glades  of  fern  he  calls  his  merry  men — 
Doublets  of  the  Lincoln  green  glancing  through  the  May 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day- 
Calls  them  and  they  answer:  from  aisles  of  oak  and  ash 
Rings  the  Follow!  Follow!  and  the  boughs  begin  to  crash; 
The  ferns  begin  to  flutter  and  the  flowers  begin  to  fly;    ' 
And  through  the  crimson  dawning  the  robber  band  goes  by. 

Robin!  Robin!  Robin!  All  his  merry  thieves 

Answer  as  the  bugle-note  shivers  through  the  leaves: 

Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Alfred  Noyes 

THE  FAIRY  BOOK 

In  summer,  when  the  grass  is  thick,  if  mother  has  the  time, 
She  shows  me  with  her  pencil  how  a  poet  makes  a  rhyme, 
And  often  she  is  sweet  enough  to  choose  a  leafy  nook, 
Where  I  cuddle  up  so  closely  when  she  reads  the  Fairy 
book. 


FAIRYLAND  1  75 

In  winter,  when  the  corn's  asleep,  and  birds  are  not  in  song, 
And  crocuses  and  violets  have  been  away  too  long, 
Dear  mother  puts  her  thimble  by  in  answer  to  my  look, 
And  I  cuddle  up  so  closely  when  she  reads  the  Fairy  book. 

And  mother  tells  the  servants  that  of  course  they  must 

contrive 
To  manage  all  the  household  things  from  four  till  half- 

past  five, 

For  we  really  cannot  suffer  interruption  from  the  cook, 
When  we  cuddle  close  together  with  the  happy  Fairy  book. 

Norman  Gale 


THE  FAIRY  FOLK 

Come  cuddle  close  in  daddy's  coat 

Beside  the  fire  so  bright, 
And  hear  about  the  fairy  folk 

That  wander  in  the  night. 
For  when  the  stars  are  shining  clear 

And  all  the  world  is  still, 
They  float  across  the  silver  moon 

From  hill  to  cloudy  hill. 

Their  caps  of  red,  their  cloaks  of  green, 

Are  hung  with  silver  bells, 
And  when  they're  shaken  with  the  wind 

Their  merry  ringing  swells. 
And  riding  on  the  crimson  moth, 

With  black  spots  on  her  wings, 
They  guide  them  down  the  purple  sky 

With  golden  bridle  rings. 

They  love  to  visit  girls  and  boys 
To  see  how  sweet  they  sleep, 

To  stand  beside  their  cosy  cots 
And  at  their  faces  peep. 


1 76  FAIRYLAND 

For  in  the  whole  of  fairy  land 

They  have  no  finer  sight 
Than  little  children  sleeping  sound 

With  faces  rosy  bright. 

On  tip-toe  crowding  round  their  heads, 

When  bright  the  moonlight  beams, 
They  whisper  little  tender  words 

That  fill  their  minds  with  dreams; 
And  wrhen  they  see  a  sunny  smile, 

With  lightest  finger  tips 
They  lay  a  hundred  kisses  sweet 

Upon  the  ruddy  lips. 

And  then  the  little  spotted  moths 

Spread  out  their  crimson  wings, 
And  bear  away  the  fairy  crowd 

With  shaking  bridle  rings. 
Come,  bairnies,  hide  in  daddy's  coat, 

Beside  the  fire  so  bright — 
Perhaps  the  little  fairy  folk 

Will  visit  you  to-night. 


Robert  Bird 


"OH!  WHERE  DO  FAIRIES  HIDE  THEIR  HEADS?" 

Oh!  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads, 

When  snow  lies  on  the  hills, 
When  frost  has  spoiled  their  mossy  beds, 
.    And  crystallized  their  rills? 
Beneath  the  moon  they  cannot  trip 

In  circles  o'er  the  plain; 
And  draughts  of  dew  they  cannot  sip, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 


FAIRYLAND 

Perhaps,  in  small,  blue  diving-bells 

They  plunge  beneath  the  waves, 
Inhabiting  the  wreathed  shells 

That  lie  in  coral  caves. 
Perhaps,  in  red  Vesuvius 

Carousals  they  maintain; 
And  cheer  their  little  spirits  thus, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

When  they  return,  there  will  be  mirth 

And  music  in  the  air. 
And  fairy  wings  upon  the  earth, 

And  mischief  everywhere. 
The  maids,  to  keep  the  elves  aloof, 

Will  bar  the  doors  in  vain; 
No  key-hole  will  be  fairy-proof, 

When  green  leaves  come  again. 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 


THE  LAST  VOYAGE  OF  THE  FAIRIES 

Down  the  bright  stream  the  fairies  float, — 

A  water-lily  is  their  boat. 

Long  rushes  they  for  paddles  take, 

Their  mainsail  of  a  bat's  wing  make; 

The  tackle  is  of  cobwebs  neat, — 

With  glow-worm  lantern  all's  complete. 

So  down  the  broadening  stream  they  float, 
With  Puck  as  pilot  of  the  boat. 
The  Queen  on  speckled  moth-wings  lies, 
And  lifts  at  times  her  languid  eyes 
To  mark  the  green  and  mossy  spots 
Where  bloom  the  blue  forget-me-nots: 
Oberon,  on  his  rose-bud  throne, 
Claims  the  fair  valley  as  his  own: 


1 78  FAIRYLAND 

And  elves  and  fairies,  with  a  shout 
Which  may  be  heard  a  yard  about, 
Hail  him  as  Elfland's  mighty  King, 
And  hazel-nuts  in  homage  bring, 
And  bend  the  unreluctant  knee, 
And  wave  their  wands  in  loyalty. 

Down  the  broad  stream  the  fairies  float, 
An  unseen  power  impels  their  boat; 
The  banks  fly  past — each  wooded  scene — 
The  elder  copse — the  poplars  green— 
And  soon  they  feel  the  briny  breeze 
With  salt  and  savor  of  the  seas. 
Still  down  the  stream  the  fairies  float, 
An  unseen  power  impels  their  boat, 
Until  they  mark  the  rushing  tide 
Within  the  estuary  wide. 

And  now  they're  tossing  on  the  sea, 

Where  waves  roll  high  and  winds  blow  free,- 

Ah,  mortal  vision  nevermore 

Shall  see  the  fairies  on  the  shore, 

Or  watch  upon  a  summer  night 

Their  mazy  dances  of  delight! 

Far,  far  away  upon  the  sea, 

The  waves  roll  high,  the  breeze  blows  free; 

The  Queen  on  speckled  moth-wings  lies, 

Slow  gazing  with  a  strange  surprise 

Where  swim  the  sea-nymphs  on  the  tide 

Or  on  the  backs  of  dolphins  ride; 

The  King,  upon  his  rose-bud  throne, 

Pales  as  he  hears  the  waters  moan; 

The  elves  have  ceased  their  sportive  play, 

Hushed  by  the  slowly  sinking  day; 

And  still  afar,  afar  they  float, 

The  fairies  in  their  fragile  boat, 


FAIRYLAND  1 79 

Farther  and  farther  from  the  shore, 
And  lost  to  mortals  evermore! 

W.  II.  Davenport  Adams 


FAIRY  SONG 

Have  ye  left  the  greenwood  lone? 
Are  your  steps  forever  gone? 
Fairy  King  and  Elfin  Queen, 
Come  ye  to  the  sylvan  scene, 
From  your  dim  and  distant  shore, 
Never  more? 

Shall  the  pilgrim  never  hear 
With  a  thrill  of  joy  and  fear, 
In  the  hush  of  moonlight  hours, 
Voices  from  the  folded  flowers, 
Faint  swexet  flutter-notes  as  of  yore, 
Never  more? 

"Mortal!  ne'er  shall  bowers  of  earth 
Hear  again  our  midnight  mirth: 
By  our  brooks  and  dingles  green 
Since  unhallowed  steps  have  been, 
Ours  shall  thread  the  forests  hoar 
Never  more. 

"Ne'er  on  earth-born  lily's  stem 

Will  we  hang  the  dewdrop's  gem; 

Ne'er  shall  reed  or  cowslip's  head 

Quiver  to  our  dancing  tread, 

By  sweet  fount  or  murmuring  shore, 
Never  more!" 
Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans 


180 


FAIRYLAND 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  FAIRIES 

Farewell,  rewards  and  fairies! 

Good  housewives  now  may  say, 
For  slatterns  now  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they. 
And  though  they  sweep  their  hearths  no  less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  do, 
Yet  who  of  late,  for  cleanliness, 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe? 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both 

You  merry  were  and  glad; 
So  little  care  of  sleep  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had; 
When  Tom  came  home  from  labor, 

Or  Ciss  to  milking  rose, 
Then  merrily  went  their  tabor 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain; 
But  since  of  late,  Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James  came  in, 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

Richard  Corbft 


v 


heGkd 


\ 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

The  Christ-child  lay  on  Mary's  lap, 

His  hair  was  like  a  light. 
(O  weary,  weary  were  the  world, 

But  here  is  all  aright.) 

The  Christ-child  lay  on  Mary's  breast, 

His  hair  was  like  a  star. 
(O  stern  and  cunning  are  the  kings, 

But  here  the  true  hearts  are.) 

The  Christ-child  lay  on  Mary's  heart, 

His  hair  was  like  a  fire. 
(0  weary,  weary  is  the  world, 

But  here  the  world's  desire.) 

The  Christ-child  stood  at  Mary's  knee, 

His  hair  was  like  a  crown, 
And  all  the  flowers  looked  up  at  Him, 

And  all  the  stars  looked  down. 

Gilbert  Keith  Chesterton 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

CAROL 

When  the  herds  were  watching 

In  the  midnight  chill, 
Came  a  spotless  lambkin 

From  the  heavenly  hill. 

Snow  was  on  the  mountains, 

And  the  wind  was  cold, 
When  from  God's  own  garden 

Dropped  a  rose  of  gold. 

When  'twas  bitter  winter, 

Houseless  and  forlorn 
In  a  star-lit  stable 

Christ  the  Babe  was  born. 

Welcome,  heavenly  lambkin; 

Welcome,  golden  rose; 
Alleluia,  Baby, 

In  the  swaddling  clothes! 

William  Canton 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

There's  a  song  in  the  air! 

There's  a  star  in  the  sky! 

There's  a  mother's  deep  prayer 

And  a  baby's  low  cry! 

And  the  star  rains  its  fire  while  the  Beautiful  sing, 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king. 
183 


184  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

There's  a  tumult  of  joy 

O'er  the  wonderful  birth, 

For  the  virgin's  sweet  boy 

Is  the  Lord  of  the  earth, 

Ay!  the  star  rains  its  fire  and  the  Beautiful  sing, 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king. 

In  the  light  of  that  star 

Lie  the  ages  impearled; 

And  that  song  from  afar 

Has  swept  over  the  world. 
Every  home  is  aflame,  and  the  Beautiful  sing 
In  the  homes  of  the  nations  that  Jesus  is  King. 

We  rejoice  in  the  light 

And  we  echo  the  song 

That  comes  down  through  the  night 

From  the  heavenly  throng. 
Ay!  we  shout  to  the  lovely  evangel  they  bring, 
And  we  greet  in  his  cradle  our  Saviour  and  King! 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

As  Joseph  was  a-waukin', 

He  heard  an  angel  sing, 
"This  night  shall  be  the  birthnight 

Of  Christ  our  heavenly  King. 

"His  birth-bed  shall  be  neither 

In  housen  nor  in  hall, 
Nor  in  the  place  of  paradise, 

But  in  the  oxen's  stall. 

"He  neither  shall  be  rocked 

In  silver  nor  in  gold, 
But  in  the  wooden  man.mT 

That  lieth  in  the  mould. 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  185 

"He  neither  shall  be  washen 

With  white  wine  nor  with  red, 
But  with  the  fair  spring  water 

That  on  you  shall  be  shed. 

'He  neither  shall  be  clothed 

In  purple  nor  in  pall, 
But  in  the  fair,  white  linen 

That  usen  babies  all." 

As  Joseph  was  a-waukin', 

Thus  did  the  angel  sing, 
And  Mary's  son  at  midnight 

Was  born  to  be  our  King. 

Then  be  you  glad,  good  people, 

At  this  time  of  the  year; 
And  light  you  up  your  candles, 

For  His  star  it  shineth  clear. 


A  CAROL 

He  came  all  so  still 

Where  His  mother  was, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  grass. 

He  came  all  so  still 

Where  His  mother  lay, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  spray. 

He  came  all  so  still 

To  his  mother's  bower, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  flower. 


186  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

Mother  and  maiden 

Was  never  none  but  she! 

Well  might  such  a  lady 
God's  mother  be. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROLS 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear, 

That  glorious  song  of  old, 
From  angels  bending  near  the  earth 

To  touch  their  harps  of  gold: 
"Peace  on  the  earth,  good  will  to  men 

From  heaven's  all-gracious  King" — 
The  world  in  solemn  stillness  lay 

To  hear  the  angels  sing. 

Still  through  the  cloven  skies  they  come 

With  peaceful  wings  unfurled, 
And  still  their  heavenly  music  floats 

O'er  all  the  weary  world; 
Above  its  sad  and  lowly  plains 

They  bend  on  hovering  wing, 
And  ever  o'er  its  Babel-sounds 

The  blessed  angels  sing. 

But  with  the  woes  of  sin  and  strife 

The  world  has  suffered  long; 
Beneath  the  angel-strain  have  rolled 

Two  thousand  years  of  wrong; 
And  man,  at  war  with  man,  hears  not 

The  love-song  which  they  bring; — 
Oh,  hush  the  noise,  ye  men  of  strife, 

And  hear  the  angels  sing! 

And  ye,  beneath  life's  crushing  load, 
Whose  forms  are  bending  low, 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  187 

Who  toil  along  the  climbing  way 

With  painful  steps  and  slow, 
Look  now!  for  glad  and  golden  hours 

Come  swiftly  on  the  wing; — 
Oh,  rest  beside  the  weary  road 

And  hear  the  angels  sing! 

For  lo!  the  days  are  hastening  on 

By  prophet  bards  foretold, 
When  with  the  ever  circling  years 

Comes  round  the  age  of  gold; 
When  Peace  shall  over  all  the  earth 

Its  ancient  splendors  fling, 
And  the  whole  world  give  back  the  song 

Which  now  the  angels  sing. 

Edmund  Hamilton  Sears 


"WHILE  SHEPHERDS  WATCHED  THEIR  FLOCKS 
BY  NIGHT" 

While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down, 

And  glory  shone  around. 

"Fear  not,"  said  he,  for  mighty  dread 

Had  seized  their  troubled  mind; 
"Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 
To  you  and  all  mankind. 

"To  you,  in  David's  town,  this  day 

Is  born,  of  David's  line, 
The  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign: 

"The  heavenly  babe  you  there  shall  find 
To  human  view  displayed, 


188  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

All  meanly  wrapped  in  swaddling  bands, 
And  in  a  manger  laid." 

Thus  spake  the  seraph;  and  forthwith 

Appeared  a  shining  throng 
Of  angels,  praising  God,  who  thus 

Addressed  their  joyful  song: 

"All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 

And  to  the  earth  be  peace; 
Good  will  henceforth  from  Heaven  to  men 

Begin  and  never  cease/* 

Nahum  Tate 


"WHILE  SHEPHERDS  WATCHED" 

Like  small  curled  feathers,  white  and  soft, 

The  little  clouds  went  by, 
Across  the  moon,  and  past  the  stars, 

And  down  the  western  sky: 
In  upland  pastures,  where  the  grass 

With  frosted  dew  was  white, 
Like  snowy  clouds  the  young  sheep  lay, 

That  first,  best  Christmas  night. 

The  shepherds  slept;  and,  glimmering  faint, 

With  twist  of  thin,  blue  smoke, 
Only  their  fire's  crackling  flames 

The  tender  silence  broke — 
Save  when  a  young  lamb  raised  his  head, 

Or,  when  the  night  wind  blew, 
A  nesting  bird  would  softly  stir, 

Where  dusky  olives  grew— 

With  finger  on  her  solemn  lip, 
Night  hushed  the  shadowy  earth, 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  189 

And  only  stars  and  angels  saw 

The  little  Saviour's  birth; 
Then  came  such  flash  of  silver  light 

Across  the  bending  skies, 
The  wondering  shepherds  woke,  and  hid 

Their  frightened,  dazzled  eyes. 

And  all  their  gentle  sleepy  flock 

Looked  up,  then  slept  again, 
Nor  knew  the  light  that  dimmed  the  stars 

Brought  endless  Peace  to  men — 
Nor  even  heard  the  gracious  words 

That  down  the  ages  ring — 
"The  Christ  is  born!  the  Lord  has  come, 

Good-will  on  earth  to  bring!" 

Then  o'er  the  moonlit,  misty  fields, 

Dumb  with  the  world's  great  joy, 
The  shepherds  sought  the  white-walled  town, 

Where  lay  the  baby  boy— 
And  oh,  the  gladness  of  the  world, 

The  glory  of  the  skies, 
Because  the  longed-for  Christ  looked  up 

In  Mary's  happy  eyes! 

Margaret  Deland 


BEFORE  THE  PALING  OF  THE  STARS  " 

Before  the  paling  of  the  stars, 

Before  the  winter  morn, 
Before  the  earliest  cockcrow, 

Jesus  Christ  was  born: 
Born  in  a  stable, 

Cradled  in  a  manger, 
In  the  world  His  hands  had  made 

Born  a  stranger. 


190  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

Priest  and  king  lay  fast  asleep 

In  Jerusalem, 
Young  and  old  lay  fast  asleep 

In  crowded  Bethlehem; 
Saint  and  Angel,  ox  and  ass, 

Kept  a  watch  together 
Before  the  Christmas  daybreak 

In  the  winter  weather. 

Jesus  on  His  Mother's  breast 

In  the  stable  cold, 
Spotless  Lamb  of  God  was  He, 

Shepherd  of  the  fold : 
Let  us  kneel  with  Mary  maid, 

With  Joseph  bent  and  hoary, 
With  Saint  and  Angel,  ox  and  ass, 

To  hail  the  King  of  Glory. 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti 


"GOD  REST  YOU,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN" 

God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour, 

Was  born  upon  this  day, 
To  save  us  all  from  Satan's  power 
When  we  were  gone  astray. 
O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy! 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour, 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day. 

In  Bethlehem,  in  Jewry, 

This  blessed  babe  was  born, 
And  laid  within  a  manger, 

Upon  this  blessed  morn; 
The  which  His  mother,  Mary, 

Nothing  did  take  in  scorn. 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  1 9 1 

From  God  our  Heavenly  Father, 

A  blessed  angel  came; 
And  unto  certain  shepherds 

Brought  tidings  of  the  same: 
How  that  in  Bethlehem  was  born 

The  Son  of  God  by  name. 

"Fear  not,"  then  said  the  angel, 

"Let  nothing  you  affright, 
This  day  is  born  a  Saviour 

Of  virtue,  power,  and  might, 
So  frequently  to  vanquish  all 

The  friends  of  Satan  quite." 

The  shepherds  at  these  tidings 

Rejoiced  much  in  mind, 
And  left  their  flocks  a-feeding 

In  tempest,  storm,  and  wind, 
And  went  to  Bethlehem  straightway, 

This  blessed  babe  to  find. 

But  when  to  Bethlehem  they  came, 

Whereat  this  infant  lay, 
They  found  Him  in  a  manger, 

Where  oxen  feed  on  hay, 
His  mother  Mary  kneeling, 

Unto  the  Lord  did  pray. 

Now  to  the  Lord  sing  praises, 

All  you  within  this  place, 
And  with  true  love  and  brotherhood 

Each  other  now  embrace; 
This  holy  tide  of  Christmas 
All  others  doth  deface. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy! 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour, 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day. 


192  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 


THE  THREE  KINGS 

Three  Kings  came  riding  from  far  away, 

Melchior  and  Caspar  and  Baltasar; 
Three  Wise  Men  out  of  the  East  were  they, 
And  they  travelled  by  night  and  they  slept  by  day, 

For  their  guide  was  a  beautiful,  wonderful  star. 

The  star  was  so  beautiful,  large  and  clear, 

That  all  the  other  stars  of  the  sky 
Became  a  white  mist  in  the  atmosphere; 
And  by  this  they  knew  that  the  coming  was  near 

Of  the  Prince  foretold  in  the  prophecy. 

Three  caskets  they  bore  on  their  saddle-bows, 

Three  caskets  of  gold  with  golden  keys; 
Their  robes  were  of  crimson  silk,  with  rows 
Of  bells  and  pomegranates  and  furbelows, 
Their  turbans  like  blossoming  almond-trees. 

And  so  the  Three  Kings  rode  into  the  West, 

Through  the  dusk  of  night,  over  hill  and  dell, 
And  sometimes  they  nodded  with  beard  on  breast, 
And  sometimes  talked,  as  they  paused  to  rest, 
With  the  people  they  met  at  some  wayside  well. 

"Of  the  child  that  is  born,"  said  Baltasar, 

"Good  people,  I  pray  you,  tell  us  the  news, 
For  we  in  the  East  have  seen  his  star, 
And  have  ridden  fast,  and  have  ridden  far, 
To  find  and  worship  the  King  of  the  Jews.'* 

And  the  people  answered,  "You  ask  in  vain; 

We  know  of  no  king  but  Herod  the  Great!" 
They  thought  the  Wise  Men  were  men  insane, 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  193 

As  they  spurred  their  horses  across  the  plain 
Like  riders  in  haste,  and  who  cannot  wait. 

And  when  they  came  to  Jerusalem, 

Herod  the  Great,  who  had  heard  this  thing, 

Sent  for  the  Wise  Men  and  questioned  them; 

And  said,  "Go  down  unto  Bethlehem, 
And  bring  me  tidings  of  this  new  king." 

So  they  rode  away,  and  the  star  stood  still, 

The  only  one  in  the  gray  of  morn; 
Yes,  it  stopped, — it  stood  still  of  its  own  free  will, 
Right  over  Bethlehem  on  the  hill, 

The  city  of  David,  where  Christ  was  born. 

And  the  Three  Kings  rode  through  the  gate  and  the  guard, 
Through  the  silent  street,  till  their  horses  turned 

And  neighed  as  they  entered  the  great  inn-yard; 

But  the  windows  were  closed,  and  the  doors  were  barred, 
And  only  a  light  in  the  stable  burned. 

And  cradled  there  in  the  scented  hay, 

In  the  air  made  sweet  by  the  breath  of  kine, 

The  little  child  in  the  manger  lay, 

The  Child  that  would  be  King  one  day 
Of  a  kingdom  not  human,  but  divine. 

His  mother,  Mary  of  Nazareth, 

Sat  watching  beside  his  place  of  rest, 
Watching  the  even  flow  of  his  breath, 
For  the  joy  of  life  and  the  terror  of  death 

Were  mingled  together  in  her  breast. 

They  laid  their  offerings  at  his  feet: 

The  gold  was  their  tribute  to  a  King; 
The  frankincense,  with  its  odor  sweet, 


194  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

Was  for  the  Priest,  the  Paraclete; 
The  myrrh  for  the  body's  burying. 

And  the  mother  wondered  and  bowed  her  head, 

And  sat  as  still  as  a  statue  of  stone; 
Her  heart  was  troubled  yet  comforted, 
Remembering  what  the  Angel  had  said 
Of  an  endless  reign  and  of  David's  throne. 

Then  the  Kings  rode  out  of  the  city  gate, 
With  a  clatter  of  hoofs  in  proud  array; 
But  they  went  not  back  to  Herod  the  Great, 
For  they  knew  his  malice  and  feared  his  hate, 
And  returned  to  their  homes  by  another  way. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  WISE  MEN 

Saw  you  never  in  the  twilight, 

When  the  sun  had  left  the  skies, 
Up  in  heaven  the  clear  stars  shining, 

Through  the  gloom  with  silver  eyes? 
So  of  old  the  wrise  men  watching, 

Saw  a  little  stranger  star, 
And  they  knew  the  King  was  given, 

And  they  followed  it  from  far. 

Heard  you  never  of  the  story, 

How  they  crossed  the  desert  wild, 
Journeyed  on  by  plain  and  mountain, 

Till  they  found  the  Holy  Child? 
How  they  opened  all  their  treasure, 

Kneeling  to  that  Infant  King, 
Gave  the  gold  and  fragrant  incense, 

Gave  the  myrrh  in  offering? 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  195 

Know  ye  not  that  lowly  Baby 

Was  the  bright  and  morning  star, 
He  who  came  to  light  the  Gentiles, 

And  the  darkened  isles  afar? 
And  we  too  may  seek  his  cradle, 

There  our  heart's  best  treasures  bring, 
Love,  and  Faith,  and  true  devotion, 

For  our  Saviour,  God,  and  King. 

Cecil  Frances  Alexander 


LULLABY  IN  BETHLEHEM 

There  hath  come  an  host  to  see  Thee, 

Baby  dear, 

Bearded  men  with  eyes  of  flame 

And  lips  of  fear, 

For  the  heavens,  they  say,  have  broken 

Into  blinding  gulfs  of  glory, 

And  the  Lord,  they  say,  hath  spoken 

In  a  little,  wondrous  story, 

Baby  dear. 

There  have  come  three  kings  to  greet  Thee, 

Baby  dear, 

Crowned  with  gold  and  clad  in  purple, 

They  draw  near, 

They  have  brought  rare  silks  to  bind  Thee, 

At  Thy  feet  behold  they  spread  them, 

From  their  thrones  they  sprang  to  find  Thee, 

And  a  blazing  star  hath  led  them, 

Baby  dear. 

I  have  neither  jade  nor  jasper, 
Baby  dear, 

Thou  art  all  my  hope  and  glory, 
And  my  fear, 


196  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

Yet  for  all  the  gems  that  strew  Thee, 

And  the  kingly  gowns  that  fold  Thee, 

Yea,  though  all  the  world  should  woo  Thee, 

Thou  art  mine — and  fast  I  hold  Thee, 

Baby  dear.  H.  H.  Bashford 

A  CHILD'S  PRAYER 

(EX  ORE  INFANTIUM) 

Little  Jesus,  wast  Thou  shy 
Once,  and  just  so  small  as  I? 
And  what  did  it  feel  like  to  be 
Out  of  Heaven,  and  just  like  me? 
Didst  Thou  sometimes  think  of  there, 
And  ask  where  all  the  angels  were? 
I  should  think  that  I  would  cry 
For  my  house  all  made  of  sky; 
I  would  look  about  the  air, 
And  wonder  where  my  angels  were; 
And  at  waking  'twould  distress  me — 
Not  an  angel  there  to  dress  me! 

Hadst  Thou  ever  any  toys, 

Like  us  little  girls  and  boys? 

And  didst  Thou  play  in  Heaven  with  all 

The  angels,  that  were  not  too  tall, 

With  stars  for  marbles?    Did  the  things 

Play  Can  you  see  me?  through  their  wings? 

Didst  Thou  kneel  at  night  to  pray, 
And  didst  Thou  join  Thy  hands,  this  way? 
And  did  they  tire  sometimes,  being  young, 
And  make  the  prayer  seem  .very  long? 
And  dost  Thou  like  it  best,  that  we 
Should  join  our  hands  and  pray  to  Thee? 
I  used  to  think,  before  I  knew, 
The  prayer  not  said  unless  we  do. 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  197 

And  did  Thy  Mother  at  the  night 
Kiss  Thee  and  fold  the  clothes  in  right? 
And  didst  Thou  feel  quite  good  in  bed, 
Kissed,  and  sweet,  and  Thy  prayers  said? 

Thou  canst  not  have  forgotten  all 

That  it  feels  like  to  be  small: 

And  Thou  know'st  I  cannot  pray 

To  Thee  in  my  father's  way— 

When  Thou  wast  so  little,  say, 

Could'st  Thou  talk  Thy  Father's  way? — 

So,  a  little  child,  come  down 

And  hear  a  child's  tongue  like  Thy  own; 

Take  me  by  the  hand  and  walk, 

And  listen  to  my  baby-talk. 

To  Thy  Father  show  my  prayer 

(He  will  look,  Thou  art  so  fair), 

And  say:  "O  Father,  I,  Thy  son, 

Bring  the  prayer  of  a  little  one." 

And  He  will  smile,  that  children's  tongue 
Has  not  changed  since  Thou  wast  young! 

Francis  Thompson 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS 

I  heard  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men! 


198  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 

The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men! 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men! 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearth-stones  of  a  continent, 

And  made  forlorn 

The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men! 

And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head; 
"There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said, 

"For  hate  is  strong, 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!" 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep: 
"God  is  not  dead,  nor  doth  He  sleep! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!" 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

JEST  TORE  CHRISTMAS 

Father  calls  me  William,  sister  calls  me  Will, 
Mother  calls  me  Willie,  but  the  fellers  call  me  Bill! 
Mighty  glad  I  ain't  a  girl — ruther  be  a  boy, 
Without  them  sashes,  curls,  an'  things  that's  worn  by 
Fauntleroy! 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  199 

Love  to  chawnk  green  apples  an'  go  swimmin'  in  the  lake — 
Hate  to  take  the  castor-ile  they  give  for  belly-ache! 
'Most  all  the  time,  the  whole  year  round,  there  ain't  no 

flies  on  me, 
But  jest  'fore  Christmas  I'm  as  good  as  I  kin  be! 

Got  a  yeller  dog  named  Sport,  sick  him  on  the  cat; 
First  thing  she  knows  she  doesn't  know  where  she  is  at; 
Got  a  clipper  sled,  an'  when  us  kids  goes  out  to  slide, 
'Long  comes  the  grocery  cart,  an'  we  all  hook  a  ride! 
But  sometimes  when  the  grocery  man  is  worrited  an'  cross, 
He  reaches  at  us  with  his  whip,  an'  larrups  up  his  hoss, 
An'  then  I  laffan'  holler,  "Oh,  ye  never  teched  me!" 
But  jest  'fore  Christmas  I'm  as  good  as  I  kin  be! 

Gran'ma  says  she  hopes  that  when  I  git  to  be  a  man, 

I'll  be  a  missionarer  like  her  oldest  brother,  Dan, 

As  was  et  up  by  the  cannibuls  that  lives  in  Ceylon's  Isle, 

Where  every  prospeck  pleases,  an'  only  man  is  vile! 

But  gran'ma  she  has  never  been  to  see  a  Wild  West  show, 

Nor  read  the  Life  of  Daniel  Boone,  or  else  I  guess  she'd 

know 

That  Buff'lo  Bill  and  cow-boys  is  good  enough  for  me! 
Excepy  jest  'fore  Christmas,  when  I'm  good  as  I  kin  be! 

And  then  old  Sport  he  hangs  around,  sosolemn-like  an' still, 
His  eyes  they  keep  a-sayin':  "What's  the  matter,  little 

Bill?" 
The  old  cat  sneaks  down  off  her  perch  an'  wonders  what's 

become 
Of  them  two  enemies  of  hern  that  used  to  make  things 

hum! 

But  I  am  so  perlite  an'  'tend  so  earnestly  to  biz, 
That  mother  says  to  father:  "How  improved  ourWillieis!" 
But  father,  havin'  been  a  boy  hisself,  suspicions  me 
When,  jest  'fore  Christmas,  I'm  as  good  as  I  kin  be! 


200  THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 

For  Christmas,  with  its  lots  an'  lots  of  candies,  cakes,  an' 

toys, 
Was  made,  they  say,  for  proper  kids  an'  not  for  naughty 

boys; 

So  wash  yer  face  an'  bresh  yer  hair,  an'  mind  yer  p's  an'  q's, 
An'  don't  bust  out  yer  pantaloons.,  an'  don't  wear  out  yer 

shoes; 

Say  "Yessum"  to  the  ladies,  an'  "Yessur"  to  the  men, 
An'  when  they's  company,  don't  pass  yer  plate  for  pie 

again; 

But,  thinkin'  of  the  things  yer'd  like  to  see  upon  that  tree, 
Jest  'fore  Christmas  be  as  good  as  yer  kin  be! 

Eugene  Field 

THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE  IN  THE  NURSERY 

With  wild  surprise 
Four  great  eyes 
In  two  small  heads 
From  neighboring  beds 
Looked  out — and  winked — 
And  glittered  and  blinked 
At  a  very  queer  sight 
In  the  dim  dawn-light. 
As  plain  as  can  be 
A  fairy  tree 
Flashes  and  glimmers 
And  shakes  and  shimmers. 
Red,  green,  and  blue 
Meet  their  view; 
Silver  and  gold 
Sharp  eyes  behold; 
Small  moons,  big  stars; 
And  jams  in  jars, 
And  cakes,  and  honey, 
And  thimbles,  and  money, 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  201 

Pink  dogs,  blue  cats, 
Little  squeaking  rats, 
And  candles,  and  dolls, 
And  crackers,  and  polls, 
A  real  bird  that  sings, 
And  tokens  and  favors, 
And  all  sorts  of  things 
For  the  little  shavers. 

Four  black  eyes 

Grow  big  with  surprise; 

And  then  grow  bigger 

When  a  tiny  figure, 

Jaunty  and  airy, 

A  fairy!  a  fairy! 

From  the  tree-top  cries, 

"Open  wide!  Black  Eyes! 

Come,  children,  wake  now! 

Your  joys  you  may  take  now!" 

Quick  as  you  can  think 

Twenty  small  toes 

In  four  pretty  rows, 
Like  little  piggies  pink, 

All  kick  in  the  air — 
And  before  you  can  wink 

The  tree  stands  bare! 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

SANTA  CLAUS 

He  comes  in  the  night!    He  comes  in  the  night! 

He  softly,  silently  comes; 
While  the  little  brown  heads  on  the  pillows  so  white 

Are  dreaming  of  bugles  and  drums. 
He  cuts  through  the  snow  like  a  ship  through  the  foam, 

While  the  white  flakes  around  him  whirl; 


202 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 


Who  tells  him  I  know  not,  but  he  soon  finds  the  home 
Of  each  good  little  boy  and  girl. 

His  sleigh  it  is  long,  and  deep,  and  wide; 

It  will  carry  a  host  of  things, 
While  dozens  of  drums  hang  over  the  side, 

With  the  sticks  sticking  under  the  strings. 
And  yet  not  the  sound  of  a  drum  is  heard, 

Not  a  bugle  blast  is  blown, 
As  he  mounts  to  the  chimney-top  like  a  bird, 

And  drops  to  the  hearth  like  a  stone. 

The  little  red  stockings  he  silently  fills, 

Till  the  stockings  will  hold  no  more; 
The  bright  little  sleds  for  the  great  snow  hills 

Are  quickly  set  down  on  the  floor. 
Then  Santa  Claus  mounts  to  the  roof  like  a  bird, 

And  springs  to  his  seat  in  the  sleigh; 
Not  the  sound  of  a  bugle  or  drum  is  heard 

As  he  noiselessly  gallops  away. 

He  rides  to  the  East,  and  he  rides  to  the  West, 

Of  his  goodies  he  touches  not  one; 
He  waits  for  the  crumbs  of  the  Christmas  feast 

When  the  dear  little  folks  are  done. 
Old  Santa  Claus  does  all  the  good  that  he  can; 

This  beautiful  mission  is  his; 
Then,  children,  be  kind  to  the  little  old  man, 

When  you  find  who  the  little  man  is. 

KRISS  KRINGLE 

Just  as  the  moon  was  fading  amid  her  misty  rings, 

And  every  stocking  was  stuffed  with  childhood's  precious 

things, 
Old  Kriss  Kringle  looked  round,  and  saw  on  the  elm-tree 

bough, 
High-hung,  an  oriole's  nest,  silent  and  empty  now. 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL  203 

"Quite  like  a  stocking,"  he  laughed,  "pinned  up  there  on 

the  tree! 
Little    I    thought    the    birds    expected    a    present    from 

me!" 
Then  old  Kriss  Kringle,  who  loves  a  joke  as  well  as  the 

best, 

Dropped  a  handful  of  flakes  in  the  oriole's  empty  nest. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS 

'Twas  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the 

house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  ST.  NICHOLAS  soon  would  be  there; 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads; 
And  mamma  in  her  'kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap, 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow 
Gave  the  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below, 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 
But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 
And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name; 
"Now,  Dasher!  now,  Dancer!  now,  Prancer  and  Vixen! 
On,  Comet!  on,  Cupid!  on,  Donder  and  Blitzen! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch!  to  the  top  of  the  wall! 
Now  dash  away!  dash  away!  dash  away  all!" 


204 


THE  GLAD  EVANGEL 


As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 
So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  and  St.  Nicholas  too. 
And  then,  in  a  twinkling,  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 
As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes — how  they  twinkled!  his  dimples  how  merry! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry! 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  of  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow; 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath; 
He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly, 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowlful  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump,  a  right  jolly  old  elf, 
And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself; 
A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread; 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings;  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose; 
He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle, 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night." 

Clement  Clarke  Moore 


THE  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Great,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  World, 
With  the  wonderful  water  round  you  curled, 
And  the  wonderful  grass  upon  your  breast, 
World,  you  are  beautifully  dressed. 

The  wonderful  air  is  over  me, 
And  the  wonderful  wind  is  shaking  the  tree — 
It  walks  on  the  water,  and  whirls  the  mills, 
And  talks  to  itself  on  the  top  of  the  hills. 

You  friendly  Earth,  how  far  do  you  go, 

With  the  wheat-fields  that  nod  and  the  rivers  that  flow,    . 

With  cities  and  gardens  and  cliffs  and  isles, 

And  the  people  upon  you  for  thousands  of  miles? 

Ah!  you  are  so  great,  and  I  am  so  small, 
I  hardly  can  think  of  you,  World,  at  all; 
And  yet,  when  I  said  my  prayers  to-day, 
My  mother  kissed  me,  and  said,  quite  gay, 

"If  the  wonderful  World  is  great  to  you, 

And  great  to  father  and  mother,  too, 

You  are  more  than  the  Earth,  though  you  are  such  a  dot! 

You  can  love  and  think,  and  the  Earth  cannot!" 

William  Brighty  Rands 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

THE  WORLD'S  MUSIC 

The  world's  a  very  happy  place, 

Where  every  child  should  dance  and  sing, 
And  always  have  a  smiling  face, 

And  never  sulk  for  anything. 

I  waken  when  the  morning's  come, 

And  feel  the  air  and  light  alive 
With  strange  sweet  music  like  the  hum 

Of  bees  about  their  busy  hive. 

The  linnets  play  among  the  leaves 
At  hide-and-seek,  and  chirp  and  sing; 

While,  flashing  to  and  from  the  eaves, 
The  swallows  twitter  on  the  wing. 

The  twigs  that  shake,  and  boughs  that  sway; 

And  tall  old  trees  you  could  not  climb; 
And  winds  that  come,  but  cannot  stay, 

Are  gaily  singing  all  the  time. 

From  dawn  to  dark  the  old  mill-wheel 
Makes  music,  going  round  and  round; 

And  dusty-white  with  flour  and  meal, 
The  miller  whistles  to  its  sound. 

And  if  you  listen  to  the  rain 

When  leaves  and  birds  and  bees  are  dumb, 
You  hear  it  pattering  on  the  pane 

Like  Andrew  beating  on  his  drum. 

207 


208  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

The  coals  beneath  the  kettle  croon, 
And  clap  their  hands  and  dance  in  glee; 

And  even  the  kettle  hums  a  tune 
To  tell  you  when  it's  time  for  tea. 

The  world  is  such  a  happy  place, 
That  children,  whether  big  or  small, 

Should  always  have  a  smiling  face, 
And  never,  never  sulk  at  all. 

Gabriel  Setoun 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATURE 

is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around; 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground  ? 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky; 

The  ground-squirrel  gaily  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright-green  vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 

There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the  flower, 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  209 


FRIENDS 

How  good  to  lie  a  little  while 

And  look  up  through  the  tree! 
The  Sky  is  like  a  kind  big  smile 
Bent  sweetly  over  me. 

The  Sunshine  flickers  through  the  lace 

Of  leaves  above  my  head, 
And  kisses  me  upon  the  face 

Like  Mother,  before  bed. 

The  Wind  comes'stealing  o'er  the  grass 

To  whisper  pretty  things; 
And  though  I  cannot  see  him  pass, 

I  feel  his  careful  wings. 

So  many  gentle  Friends  are  near 

Whom  one  can  scarcely  see, 
A  child  should  never  feel  a  fear, 
Wherever  he  may  be. 

Abbie  Farwell  Brown 


PLAYGROUNDS 

In  summer  I  am  very  glad 

We  children  are  so  small, 
For  we  can  see  a  thousand  things 

That  men  can't  see  at  all. 

They  don't  know  much  about  the  moss 
And  all  the  stones  they  pass: 

They  never  lie  and  play  among 
The  forests  in  the  grass: 


2 1 0  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

They  walk  about  a  long  way  off; 

And,  when  we're  at  the  sea, 
Let  father  stoop  as  best  he  can 
He  can't  find  things  like  me. 

But,  when  the  snow  is  on  the  ground 

And  all  the  puddles  freeze, 
I  wish  that  I  were  very  tall, 

High  up  above  the  trees. 

Laurence  Alma-Tadema 


THE  BROOK'S  SONG 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow- weed  and  mallow. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  2 1 1 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  water-break 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars, 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


212 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


A  BOY'S  SONG 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 
Where  the  gray  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest, 
Where  the  hawthorn  blooms  the  sweetest, 
Where  the  nestlings  chirp  and  flee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  mowers  mow  the  cleanest, 
Where  the  hay  lies  thick  and  greenest, 
There  to  track  the  homeward  bee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest, 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Why  the  boys  should  drive  away 
Little  sweet  maidens  from  the  play, 
Or  love  to  banter  and  fight  so  well, 
That's  the  thing  I  never  could  tell. 

But  this  I  know,  I  love  to  play 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay; 
Up  the  water  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

James  Hogg 


GOING  DOWN  HILL  ON  A  BICYCLE 

With  lifted  feet,  hands  still, 
I  am  poised,  and  down  the  hill 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  2 1 3 

Dart,  with  heedful  mind; 
The  air  goes  by  in  a  wind. 

Swifter  and  yet  more  swift, 
Till  the  heart  with  a  mighty  lift 
Makes  the  lungs  laugh,  the  throat  cry: — 
"O  bird,  see;  see,  bird,  I  fly. 

"Is  this,  is  this  your  joy? 
O  bird,  then  I,  though  a  boy, 
For  a  golden  moment  share 
Your  feathery  life  in  air!" 

Say,  heart,  is  there  aught  like  this 
In  a  world  that  is  full  of  bliss? 
'Tis  more  than  skating,  bound 
Steel-shod  to  the  level  ground. 

Speed  slackens  now,  I  float 
Awhile  in  my  airy  boat; 
Till,  when  the  wheels  scarce  crawl, 
My  feet  to  the  treadles  fall. 

Alas,  that  the  longest  hill 
Must  end  in  a  vale;  but  still, 
Who  climbs  with  toil,  wheresoever, 
Shall  find  wings  waiting  there. 

Henry  Charles  Seeching 

SONG 

The  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 


2 1 4  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

The  snail's  on  the  thorn; 
God's  in  His  Heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 


Robert  Browning 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING 

There's  something  in  the  air 
That's  new  and  sweet  and  rare — 
A  scent  of  summer  things— 
A  whir  as  if  of  wings. 

There's  something,  too,  that's  new 
In  the  color  of  the  blue 
That's  in  the  morning  sky, 
Before  the  sun  is  high. 

And  though  on  plain  and  hill 
'Tis  winter,  winter  still, 
There's  something  seems  to  say 
That  winter's  had  its  day. 

And  all  this  changing  tint, 
This  whispering  stir  and  hint 
Of  bud  and  bloom  and  wing, 
Is  the  coming  of  the  spring. 

And  to-morrow  or  to-day 
The  brooks  will  break  away 
From  their  icy,  frozen  sleep, 
And  run,  and  laugh,  and  leap. 

And  the  next  thing,  in  the  woods, 
The  catkins  in  their  hoods 
Of  fur  and  silk  will  stand, 
A  sturdy  little  band. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  2 1 5 

And  the  tassels  soft  and  fine 
Of  the  hazel  will  entwine, 
And  the  elder  branches  show 
Their  buds  against  the  snow. 

So,  silently  but  swift, 
Above  the  wintry  drift, 
The  long  days  gain  and  gain, 
Until  on  hill  and  plain, 

Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 
Returning  as  before, 
We  see  the  bloom  of  birth 
Make  young  again  the  earth. 

Nora  Perry 

EARLY  SPRING 

Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new, 
And  domes  the  red-plowed  hills 

With  loving  blue; 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 

The  throstles  too. 

Opens  a  door  in  Heaven; 

From  skies  of  glass 
A  Jacob's  ladder  falls 

On  greening  grass, 
And  o'er  the  mountain-walls 

Young  angels  pass. 

Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 

And  burst  the  buds, 
And  shine  the  level  lands, 

And  flash  the  floods; 
The  stars  are  from  their  hands 

Flung  through  the  woods, 


2 1 6  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

The  woods  with  living  airs 
How  softly  fanned, 

Light  airs  from  where  the  deep, 
All  down  the  sand, 

Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 
Heard  by  the  land. 

O,  follow,  leaping  blood, 

The  season's  lure! 
O  heart,  look  down  and  up, 

Serene,  secure, 
Warm  as  the  crocus  cup, 

Like  snow-drops,  pure! 

Past,  Future  glimpse  and  fade 
Through  some  slight  spell, 

A  gleam  from  yonder  vale, 
Some  far  blue  fell, 

And  sympathies,  how  frail, 
In  sound  and  smell! 

Till  at  thy  chuckled  note, 
Thou  twinkling  bird, 

The  fairy  fancies  range, 
And,  lightly  stirred, 

Ring  little  bells  of  change 
From  word  to  word. 


For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new, 
And  thaws  the  cold,  and  fills 

The  flower  with  dew; 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 

The  poets  too. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  2 1 7 


ROBIN'S  COME! 

From  the  elm-tree's  topmost  bough, 
Hark!  the  Robin's  early  song! 

Telling  one  and  all  that  now 
Merry  spring-time  hastes  along; 

Welcome  tidings  dost  thou  bring, 

Little  harbinger  of  spring: 

Robin's  come! 

Of  the  winter  we  are  weary, 
Weary  of  the  frost  and  snow; 

Longing  for  the  sunshine  cheery, 
And  the  brooklet's  gurgling  flow; 

Gladly  then  we  hear  thee  sing 

The  reveille  of  spring: 

Robin's  come! 

Ring  it  out  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Through  the  garden's  lonely  bowers, 

Till  the  green  leaves  dance  again, 
Till  the  air  is  sweet  with  flowers! 

Wake  the  cowslips  by  the  rill, 

Wake  the  yellow  daffodil; 

Robin's  come! 

Then,  as  thou  wert  wont  of  yore, 
Build  thy  nest  and  rear  thy  young, 

Close  beside  our  cottage  door, 
In  the  woodbine  leaves  among; 

Hurt  or  harm  thou  need'st  not  fear, 

Nothing  rude  shall  venture  near: 
Robin's  come! 

Swinging  still  o'er  yonder  lane 
Robin  answers  merrily; 


2 1 8  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Ravished  by  the  sweet  refrain, 
Alice  claps  her  hands  in  glee, 
Calling  from  the  open  door, 
With  her  soft  voice,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Robin's  come! 

William  Warner  Caldwdl 

WRITTEN  IN  MARCH 

The  cock  is  crowing, 

The  stream  is  flowing, 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest; 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 

Their  heads  never  raising; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one! 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  snow  hath  retreated, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill; 
The  ploughboy  is  whooping — anon — anon 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains; 

There's  life  in  the  fountains; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone! 

William  Wordsworth 

SONG 

April,  April, 

Laugh  thy  girlish  laughter; 

Then,  the  moment  after, 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  2 1 9 

Weep  thy  girlish  tears! 
April,  that  mine  ears 
Like  a  lover  greetest, 
If  I  tell  thee,  sweetest, 
All  my  hopes  and  fears, 
April,  April, 

Laugh  thy  golden  laughter, 
But,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  golden  tears! 

William  Watson 


HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 

In  England — now! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows! 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 

That's  the  wise  thrush:  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 

Robert  Browning 


220  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


SWEET  WILD  APRIL 

O  sweet  wild  April  came  over  the  hills, 

He  skipped  with  the  winds  and  he  tripped  with  the  rills; 

His  raiment  was  all  of  the  daffodils. 

Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

O  sweet  wild  April  came  down  the  lea, 
Dancing  along  with  his  sisters  three: 
Carnation,  and  Rose,  and  tall  Lily. 

Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

O  sweet  wild  April  on  pastoral  quill 

Came  piping  in  moonlight  by  hollow  and  hill, 

In  starlight  at  midnight,  by  dingle  and  rill. 

Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

Where  sweet  wild  April  his  melody  played, 
Trooped  cowslip,  and  primrose,  and  iris,  the  maid, 
And  silver  narcissus,  a  star  in  the  shade. 

Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

When  sweet  wild  April  dipped  down  the  dale, 
Pale  cuckoopint  brightened,  and  windflower  frail, 
And  white-thorn,  the  wood-bride,  in  virginal  veil. 

Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

When  sweet  wild  April  through  deep  woods  pressed, 
Sang  cuckoo  above  him,  and  lark  on  his  crest, 
And  Philomel  fluttered  close  under  his  breast. 
Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

O  sweet  wild  April,  wherever  you  went 
The  bondage  of  winter  was  broken  and  rent, 
Sank  elfin  ice-city  and  frost-goblin's  tent. 
Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  221 

Yet  sweet  wild  April,  the  blithe,  the  brave, 

Fell  asleep  in  the  fields  by  a  windless  wave 

And  Jack-in-the-PuIpit  preached  over  his  grave. 

Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

O  sweet  wild  April,  farewell  to  thee! 
And  a  deep  sweet  sleep  to  thy  sisters  three, — 
Carnation,  and  Rose,  and  tall  Lily. 
Sing  hi,  sing  hey,  sing  ho! 

William  Force  Stead 


APRIL  RAIN 

It  is  not  raining  rain  for  me, 

It's  raining  daffodils; 
In  every  dimpled  drop  I  see 

Wild  flowers  on  the  hills. 

The  clouds  of  gray  engulf  the  day 

And  overwhelm  the  town; 
It  is  not  raining  rain  to  me, 

It's  raining  roses  down. 

It  is  not  raining  rain  to  me, 

But  fields  of  clover  bloom, 
Where  any  buccaneering  bee 

Can  find  a  bed  and  room. 

A  health  unto  the  happy, 

A  fig  for  him  who  frets! 
It  is  not  raining  rain  to  me, 

It's  raining  violets. 

Robert  Loveman 


222  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


BABY  SEED  SONG 

Little  brown  brother,  oh!  little  brown  brother, 

Are  you  awake  in  the  dark? 
Here  we  lie  cosily,  close  to  each  other: 

Hark  to  the  song  of  the  lark — 
"Waken!"  the  lark  says,  "waken  and  dress  you; 

Put  on  your  green  coats  and  gay, 
Blue  sky  will  shine  on  you,  sunshine  caress  you — 

Waken!  'tis  morning — 'tis  May!" 

Little  brown  brother,  oh!  little  brown  brother, 

What  kind  of  flower  will  you  be? 
I'll  be  a  poppy — all  white,  like  my  mother; 

Do  be  a  poppy  like  me. 
What!  you're  a  sun-flower?    How  I  shall  miss  you 

When  you're  grown  golden  and  high! 
But  I  shall  send  all  the  bees  up  to  kiss  you; 

Little  brown  brother,  good-bye. 

Edith  Neslit 


SONG:  ON  MAY  MORNING 

Now  the  bright  morning-star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire! 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

John  Milton 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  223 


MIDSUMMER 

Around  this  lovely  valley  rise 
The  purple  hills  of  Paradise. 

O,  softly  on  yon  banks  of  haze, 
Her  rosy  face  the  Summer  lays! 

Becalmed  along  the  azure  sky, 

The  argosies  of  cloudland  lie, 

Whose  shores,  with  many  a  shining  rift, 

Far  off  their  pearl-white  peaks  uplift. 

Through  all  the  long  midsummer-day 
The  meadow-sides  are  sweet  with  hay. 
I  seek  the  coolest  sheltered  seat, 
Just  where  the  field  and  forest  meet, — 
Where  grow  the  pine-trees  tall  and  bland, 
The  ancient  oaks  austere  and  grand, 
And  fringy  roots  and  pebbles  fret 
The  ripples  of  the  rivulet. 

I  watch  the  mowers,  as  they  go 
Through  the  tall  grass,  a  white-sleeved  row. 
With  even  stroke  their  scythes  they  swing, 
In  tune  their  merry  whetstones  ring. 
Behind  the  nimble  youngsters  run, 
And  toss  the  thick  swaths  in  the  sun. 
The  cattle  graze,  while,  warm  and  still, 
Slopes  the  broad  pasture,  basks  the  hill, 
And  bright,  where  summer  breezes  break, 
The  green  wheat  crinkles  like  a  lake. 

The  butterfly  and  humblebee 

Come  to  the  pleasant  woods  with  me; 


224  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Quickly  before  me  runs  the  quail, 
Her  chickens  skulk  behind  the  rail; 
High  up  the  lone  wood-pigeon  sits, 
And  the  woodpecker  pecks  and  flits. 
Sweet  woodland  music  sinks  and  swells, 
The  brooklet  rings  its  tinkling  bells, 
The  swarming  insects  drone  and  hum, 
The  partridge  beats  its  throbbing  drum. 
The  squirrel  leaps  among  the  boughs, 
And  chatters  in  his  leafy  house. 
The  oriole  flashes  by;  and,  look! 
Into  the  mirror  of  the  brook, 
Where  the  vain  bluebird  trims  his  coat, 
Two  tiny  feathers  fall  and  float. 

As  silently,  as  tenderly, 
The  down  of  peace  descends  on  me. 
O,  this  is  peace!  I  have  no  need 
Of  friend  to  talk,  of  book  to  read: 
A  dear  Companion  here  abides; 
Close  to  my  thrilling  heart  He  hides; 
The  holy  silence  is  His  Voice: 
I  lie  and  listen,  and  rejoice. 

John  Townsend  Trowbridgf 


JUNE 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  Heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays; 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  225 

And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world  and  she  to  her  nest, — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 
That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack; 


226  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing, 
And  hark!  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing! 

James  Russell  Lowell 

TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'erbrimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  227 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  shallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 

Hedge-crickets  sing,  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

John  Keats 


OCTOBER'S  BRIGHT  BLUE  WEATHER 

O  suns  and  skies  and  clouds  of  June, 
And  flowers  of  June  together, 

Ye  cannot  rival  for  one  hour 
October's  bright  blue  weather; 

When  loud  the  bumblebee  makes  haste, 

Belated,  thriftless  vagrant, 
And  goldenrod  is  dying  fast, 

And  lanes  with  grapes  are  fragrant; 

When  gentians  roll  their  fingers  tight 
To  save  them  for  the  morning, 

And  chestnuts  fall  from  satin  burrs 
Without  a  sound  of  warning; 

When  on  the  ground  red  apples  lie 

In  piles  like  jewels  shining, 
And  redder  still  on  old  stone  walls 

Are  leaves  of  woodbine  twining; 

When  all  the  lovely  wayside  things 
Their  white-winged  seeds  are  sowing, 

And  in  the  fields,  still  green  and  fair, 
Late  aftermaths  are  growing; 


228  THIS-WONDERFUL  WORLD 

When  springs  run  low,  and  on  the  brooks, 

In  idle  golden  freighting, 
Bright  leaves  sink  noiseless  in  the  hush 

Of  woods,  for  winter  waiting; 

When  comrades  seek  sweet  country  haunts, 

By  twos  and  twos  together, 
And  count  like  misers,  hour  by  hour, 

October's  bright  blue  weather. 

O  sun  and  skies  and  flowers  of  June, 

Count  all  your  boasts  together, 
Love  loveth  best  of  all  the  year 

October's  bright  blue  weather. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson 


OCTOBER'S  PARTY 

October  gave  a  party; 

The  leaves  by  hundreds  came — 
The  Chestnuts,  Oaks,  and  Maples, 

And  leaves  of  every  name. 
The  Sunshine  spread  a  carpet, 

And  everything  was  grand, 
Miss  Weather  led  the  dancing, 

Professor  Wind  the  band. 

The  Chestnuts  came  in  yellow, 

The  Oaks  in  crimson  dressed; 
The  lovely  Misses  Maple 

In  scarlet  looked  their  best; 
All  balanced  to  their  partners, 

And  gaily  fluttered  by; 
The  sight  was  like  a  rainbow 

New  fallen  from  the  sky. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  229 

Then,  in  the  rustic  hollow, 

At  hide-and-seek  they  played, 
The  party  closed  at  sundown, 

And  everybody  stayed. 
Professor  Wind  played  louder; 

They  flew  along  the  ground; 
And  then  the  party  ended 

In  jolly  "hands  around." 

George  Cooper 


HOW  THE  LEAVES  CAME  DOWN 

I'll  tell  you  how  the  leaves  came  down. 

The  great  Tree  to  his  children  said: 
"You're  getting  sleepy,  Yellow  and  Brown, 

Yes,  very  sleepy,  little  Red. 

It  is  quite  time  to  go  to  bed." 

"Ah!"  begged  each  silly,  pouting  leaf, 
"Let  us  a  little  longer  stay; 

Dear  Father  Tree,  behold  our  grief! 
'Tis  such  a  very  pleasant  day, 
We  do  not  want  to  go  away." 

So,  just  for  one  more  merry  day 
To  the  great  Tree  the  leaflets  clung, 

Frolicked  and  danced,  and  had  their  way, 
Upon  the  autumn  breezes  swung, 
Whispering  all  their  sports  among — 

"Perhaps  the  great  Tree  will  forget, 
And  let  us  stay  until  the  spring, 

If  we  all  beg,  and  coax,  and  fret." 
But  the  great  Tree  did  no  such  thing; 
He  smiled  to  hear  them  whispering. 


230  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

"Come,  children,  all  to  bed,"  he  cried; 

And  ere  the  leaves  could  urge  their  prayer, 

He  shook  his  head,  and  far  and  wide, 
Fluttering  and  rustling  everywhere, 
Down  sped  the  leaflets  through  the  air. 

I  saw  them;  on  the  ground  they  lay, 
Golden  and  red,  a  huddled  swarm, 

Waiting  till  one  from  far  away, 

White  bedclothes  heaped  upon  her  arm, 
Should  come  to  wrap  them  safe  and  warm. 

The  great  bare  Tree  looked  down  and  smiled. 

"Goodnight,  dear  little  leaves,"  he  said. 
And  from  below  each  sleepy  child 

Replied,  "Goodnight,"  and  murmured, 

"  It  is  so  nice  to  go  to  bed!" 

Susan  Coolidge 

THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo! 

What  a  pretty  baby-show! 

See  the  Kitten  on  the  wall, 

Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 

Withered  leaves — one — two — and  three — 

From  the  lofty  elder-tree! 

Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 

Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair, 

Eddying  round  and  round  they  sink 

Softly,  slowly:  one  might  think, 

From  the  motions  that  are  made, 

Every  little  leaf  conveyed 

Sylph  or  Fairy  hither  tending — 

To  this  lower  world  descending, 

Each  invisible  and  mute, 

In  his  wavering  parachute. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  231 

But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts, 
Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts! 
First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow; 
There  are  many  now — now  one — 
Now  they  stop  and  there  are  none. 
What  intenseness  of  desire 
In  her  upward  eye  of  fire! 
With  a  tiger-leap  half-way 
Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 
Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 
Has  it  in  her  power  again: 
Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 
Like  an  Indian  conjuror; 
Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 
Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 
Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 
Of  a  thousand  standers-by, 
Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 
What  would  little  Tabby  care 
For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd? 
Over  happy  to  be  proud, 
Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure! 

William  Wordsworth 


ROBIN  REDBREAST 

Good-by,  good-by  to  Summer! 

For  Summer's  nearly  done; 
The  garden  smiling  faintly, 

Cool  breezes  in  the  sun; 
Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our  swallows  flown  away, — 
But  Robin's  here  in  coat  of  brown, 


232  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

And  scarlet  breast-knot  gay. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 
Robin  sings  so  sweetly 
In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange, 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts; 
The  trees  are  Indian  princes, 

But  soon  they'll  turn  to  ghosts; 
The  scanty  pears  and  apples 
Hang  russet  on  the  bough; 
It's  Autumn,  Autumn,  Autumn  late, 
'Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 

And  what  will  this  poor  Robin  do? 
For  pinching  days  are  near. 

The  fireside  for  the  cricket, 

The  wheat-stack  for  the  mouse, 
When  trembling  night-winds  whistle 

And  moan  all  round  the  house. 
The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow, — 
Alas!  in  Winter  dead  and  dark, 
Where  can  poor  Robin  go? 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 

And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 
His  little  heart  to  cheer! 

William  Allingham 

THE  FROST 

The  Frost  looked  forth,  one  still,  clear  night, 
And  he  said,  "Now  I  shall  be  out  of  sight; 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  233 

So  through  the  valley  and  over  the  height 

In  silence  I'll  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  like  that  blustering  train, 
The  wind  and  the  snow,  the  hail  and  the  rain, 
Who  make  so  much  bustle  and  noise  in  vain, 

But  I'll  be  as  busy  as  they!" 

Then  he  went  to  the  mountain,  and  powdered  its  crest, 
He  climbed  up  the  trees,  and  their  boughs  he  dressed 
With  diamonds  and  pearls,  and  over  the  breast 

Of  the  quivering  lake  he  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
The  downward  point  of  many  a  spear 
That  he  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near, 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 

He  went  to  the  windows  of  those  who  slept, 
And  over  each  pane  like  a  fairy  crept; 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he  stepped, 

By  the  light  of  the  moon  were  seen 
Most  beautiful  things.    There  were  flowers  and  trees, 
There  were  bevies  of  birds  and  swarms  of  bees, 
There  were  cities,  thrones,  temples,  and  towers,  and  these 

All  pictured  in  silver  sheen! 

But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair, — 
He  peeped  in  the  cupboard,  and,  finding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare, — 

"Now,  just  to  set  them  a-thinking, 
I'll  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  he; 
"This  costly  pitcher  I'll  burst  in  three, 
And  the  glass  of  water  they've  left  for  me 

Shall  'tchickf  to  tell  them  I'm  drinking." 

Hannah  Flagg  Gould 


234  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


JACK  FROST 

The  door  was  shut,  as  doors  should  be, 
Before  you  went  to  bed  last  night; 

Yet  Jack  Frost  has  got  in,  you  see, 
And  left  your  window  silver  white. 

He  must  have  waited  till  you  slept; 

And  not  a  single  word  he  spoke, 
But  pencilled  o'er  the  panes  and  crept 

Away  again  before  you  woke. 

And  now  you  cannot  see  the  hills 

Nor  fields  that  stretch  beyond  the  lane; 

But  there  are  fairer  things  than  these 
His  fingers  traced  on  every  pane. 

Rocks  and  castles  towering  high; 

Hills  and  dales,  and  streams  and  fields; 
And  knights  in  armor  riding  by, 

With  nodding  plumes  and  shining  shields. 


And  here  are  little  boats,  and  there 

Big  ships  with  sails  spread  to  the  breeze; 

And  yonder,  palm  trees  waving  fair 
On  islands  set  in  silver  seas, 

And  butterflies  with  gauzy  wings; 

And  herds  of  cows  and  flocks  of  sheep; 
And  fruit  and  flowers  and  all  the  things 

You  see  when  you  are  sound  asleep. 

For,  creeping  softly  underneath 

The  door  when  all  the  lights  are  out, 

Jack  Frost  takes  every  breath  you  breathe, 
And  knows  the  things  you  think  about. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  235 

He  paints  them  on  the  window  pane 

In  fairy  lines  with  frozen  steam; 
And  when  you  wake  you  see  again 

The  lovely  things  you  saw  in  dream. 

Gabriel  Setoun 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUNKIN  * 

When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock, 
And  you  hear  the  kyouck  and  gobble  of  the  struttin' 

turkey-cock, 
And  the  clackin'  of  the  guineys,  and  the  cluckin'  of  the 

hens, 

And  the  rooster's  hallylooyer  as  he  tiptoes  on  the  fence; 
O,  it's  then's  the  times  a  feller  is  a-feelin'  at  his  best, 
With  the  risin'  sun  to  greet  him  from  a  night  of  peaceful 

rest, 
As  he  leaves  the  house,  bareheaded,  and  goes  out  to  feed 

the  stock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock. 

They's  something  kindo'  harty-like  about  the  atmusfere 
W7hen  the  heat  of  summer's  over  and  the  coolin'  fall  is 

here — 
Of  course  we  miss  the  flowers,  and  the  blossoms  on  the 

trees, 
And  the  mumble  of  the  hummin'-birds  and  buzzin'  of  the 

bees; 
But  the  air's  so  appetizin';  and  the  landscape  through  the 

haze 
Of  a  crisp  and  sunny  morning  of  the  airly  autumn  days 

*  From  the  Biographical  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works  of  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  Copyright,  1913,  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs- 
Merrill  Company. 


236 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


Is  a  pictur'  that  no  painter  has  the  colorin'  to  mock — 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 
shock. 

The  husky,  rusty  russel  of  the  tossels  of  the  corn, 

And  the  raspin'  of  the  tangled  leaves,  as  golden  as  the 

morn; 

The  stubble  in  the  furries — kindo'  lonesome-like,  but  still 
A-preachin'  sermuns  to  us  of  the  barns  they  growed  to  fill; 
The  strawstack  in  the  medder,  and  the  reaper  in  the  shed; 
The  bosses  in  theyr  stalls  below — the  clover  overhead!— 
O,  it  sets  my  hart  a-clickin'  like  the  tickin'  of  a  clock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock. 

Then  your  apples  all  is  getherd,  and  the  ones  a  feller  keeps 
Is  poured  around  the  celler-floor  in  red  and  yeller  heaps; 
And  your  cider-makin'  's  over,  and  your  wimmern-folks  is 

through 
With  their  mince  and  apple-butter,  and  theyr  souse  and 

saussage,  too! 

I  don't  know  how  to  tell  it — but  ef  sich  a  thing  could  be 
As  the  Angels  wantin'  boardin',  and  they'd  call  around  on 

me — 

I'd  want  to  'commodate  'em — all  the  whole-indurin'  flock- 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 


SNOW-FLAKES 

Whenever  a  snow-flake  leaves  the  sky, 
It  turns  and  turns  to  say  "Good-bye! 
Good-bye,  dear  cloud,  so  cool  and  gray!" 
Then  lightly  travels  on  its  way. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  237 

And  when  a  snow-flake  finds  a  tree, 
"Good-day!"  it  says — "Good-day  to  thee! 
Thou  art  so  bare  and  lonely,  dear, 
I'll  rest  and  call  my  comrades  here." 

But  when  a  snow-flake,  brave  and  meek, 
Lights  on  a  rosy  maiden's  cheek, 
It  starts — "How  warm  and  soft  the  day! 
Tis  summer!" — and  it  melts  away. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR 

Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead, 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep! 

Merry  hours,  smile  instead, 
For  the  year  is  but  asleep. 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping, 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  white  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  dead-cold  year  to-day; 
Solemn  hours!  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 

So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 
Rocks  the  year: — be  calm  and  mild, 

Trembling  hours;  she  will  arise 

With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 

January  gray  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave; 


238  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

February  bears  the  bier; 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 
And  April  weeps — but,  O,  ye  hours, 
Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


"IT  IS  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING,  CALM  AND 

FREE" 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  his  tranquility; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea; 

Listen!  the  mighty  Qemg  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 

And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

William  Wordsworth 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT 

I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls! 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  239 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there, — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night!  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace!  Peace!  Orestes-like  I -breathe  this  prayer! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  night, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


TO  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 


240  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 
Come,  long-sought! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"Would'stthoume?" 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
"Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Would'st  thou  me?" — And  I  replied, 

"No,  not  thee." 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night- 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


NIGHT 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west, 
The  evening  star  does  shine; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  241 

The  moon,  like  a  flower 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  grove, 
Where  flocks  have  ta'en  delight; 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright: 

Unseen,  they  pour  blessing 

And  joy  without  ceasing, 

On  each  bud  and  blossom, 

On  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest, 
Where  birds  are  covered  warm; 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm. 

If  they  see  any  weeping 

That  should  have  been  sleeping, 

They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 

And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep, 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 

But,  if  they  rush  dreadful, 

The  angels,  most  heedful, 

Receive  each  mild  spirit 

New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold: 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold, 


242  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Saying:  "Wrath  by  His  meekness, 
And,  by  His  health,  sickness, 
Are  driven  away 
From  our  immortal  day. 

"And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 
I  can  lie  down  and  sleep, 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 
Graze  after  thee,  and  weep. 

For,  washed  in  life's  river, 

My  bright  mane  for  ever 

Shall  shine  like  the  gold, 

As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold." 

William  Blake 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  MOON 

Said  the  Wind  to  the  Moon,  "I  will  blow  you  out; 

You  stare 

In  the  air 

Like  a  ghost  in  a  chair, 
Aways  looking  what  I  am  about — 
I  hate  to  be  watched;  I'll  blow  you  out." 

The  Wind  blew  hard,  and  out  went  the  Moon. 

So,  deep 

On  a  heap 

Of  clouds  to  sleep, 

Down  lay  the  Wind,  and  slumbered  soon, 
Muttering  low,  "I've  done  for  that  Moon.'1 

He  turned  in  his  bed;  she  was  there  again! 

On  high 

In  the  sky, 

With  her  one  ghost  eye, 
The  Moon  shone  white  and  alive  and  plain. 
Said  the  Wind,  "I  will  blow  you  out  again." 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  243 

The  Wind  blew  hard,  and  the  Moon  grew  dim. 

"With  my  sledge, 

And  my  wedge, 

I  have  knocked  off  her  edge! 
If  only  I  blow  right  fierce  and  grim, 
The  creature  will  soon  be  dimmer  than  dim." 


He  blew  and  he  blew,  and  she  thinned  to  a  thread. 

"One  puff 

More's  enough 

To  blow  her  to  snuff! 

One  good  puff  more  where  the  last  was  bred, 
And  glimmer,  glimmer,  glum  will  go  the  thread." 

He  blew  a  great  blast,  and  the  thread  was  gone. 

In  the  air 

Nowhere 

Was  a  moonbeam  bare; 
Far  off  and  harmless  the  shy  stars  shone — 
Sure  and  certain  the  Moon  was  gone! 

The  Wind  he  took  to  his  revels  once  more; 

On  down, 

In  town, 

Like  a  merry-mad  clown, 

He  leaped  and  halloed  with  whistle  and  roar — 
"What's  that?"    The  glimmering  thread  once  more! 

He  flew  in  a  rage — he  danced  and  blew; 

But  in  vain 

Was  the  pain 

Of  his  bursting  brain; 
For  still  the  broader  the  Moon-scrap  grew, 
The  broader  he  swelled  his  big  cheeks  and  blew. 


244  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Slowly  she  grew— till  she  filled  the  night, 

And  shone 

On  her  throne 

In  the  sky  alone, 

A  matchless,  wonderful  silvery  light, 
Radiant  and  lovely,  the  queen  of  the  night. 


Said  the  Wind:  "What  a  marvel  of  power  am  I! 

With  my  breath, 

Good  faith! 

I  blew  her  to  death — 

First  blew  her  away  right  out  of  the  sky — 
Then  blew  her  in;  what  strength  have  I!" 


But  the  Moon  she  knew  nothing  about  the  affair; 

For  high 

In  the  sky, 

With  her  one  white  eye, 
Motionless,  miles  above  the  air, 
She  had  never  heard  the  great  Wind  blare. 

George  Macdonald 


THE  PIPER  ON  THE  HILL 

There  sits  a  piper  on  the  hill 

Who  pipes  the  livelong  day, 
And  when  he  pipes  both  loud  and  shrill, 

The  frightened  people  say: 
"The  wind,  the  wind  is  blowing  up, 

'Tis  rising  to  a  gale." 
The  women  hurry  to  the  shore 

To  watch  some  distant  sail. 
The  wind,  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  windy 

Is  blowing  to  a  gale. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  245 

But  when  he  pipes  all  sweet  and  low, 

The  piper  on  the  hill, 
I  hear  the  merry  women  go 

With  laughter,  loud  and  shrill: 
"The  wind,  the  wind  is  coming  south, 

'Twill  blow  a  gentle  day." 
They  gather  on  the  meadow-land 

To  toss  the  yellow  hay. 
The  windy  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  wind, 

Is  blowing  south  to-day. 

And  in  the  morn,  when  winter  comes, 

To  keep  the  piper  warm, 
The  little  Angels  shake  their  wings 

To  make  a  feather  storm: 
"The  snow,  the  snow  has  come  at  last!" 

The  happy  children  call, 
And  "ring  around"  they  dance  in  glee, 

And  watch  the  snowflakes  fall. 
The  wind,  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  wind, 

Has  spread  a  snowy  pall. 

But  when  at  night  the  piper  plays, 

I  have  not  any  fear, 
Because  God's  windows  open  wide 

The  pretty  tune  to  hear; 
And  when  each  crowding  spirit  looks, 

From  its  star  window-pane, 
A  watching  mother  may  behold 

Her  little  child  again. 
The  wind,  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  wind, 

May  blow  her  home  again. 

Dora  Sigerson  Shorter 


246  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


THE  WIND'S  SONG 

0  winds  that  blow  across  the  sea, 
What  is  the  story  that  you  bring? 

Leaves  clap  their  hands  on  every  tree 
And  birds  about  their  branches  sing. 

You  sing  to  flowers  and  trees  and  birds 
Your  sea-songs  over  all  the  land. 

Could  you  not  stay  and  whisper  words 
A  little  child  might  understand  ? 

The  roses  nod  to  hear  you  sing; 

But  though  I  listen  all  the  day, 
You  never  tell  me  anything 

Of  father's  ship  so  far  away. 

Its  masts  are  taller  than  the  trees; 

Its  sails  are  silver  in  the  sun; 
There's  not  a  ship  upon  the  seas 

So  beautiful  as  father's  one. 

With  wings  spread  out  it  flies  so  fast 
It  leaves  the  waves  all  white  with  foam. 

Just  whisper  to  me,  blowing  past, 
If  you  have  seen  it  sailing  home. 

1  feel  your  breath  upon  my  cheek, 
And  in  my  hair,  and  on  my  brow. 

Dear  winds,  if  you  could  only  speak, 
I  know  that  you  would  tell  me  now. 

My  father's  coming  home,  you'd  say, 
With  precious  presents,  one,  two,  three; 

A  shawl  for  mother,  beads  for  May, 
And  eggs  and  shells  for  Rob  and  me. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  247 

The  winds  sing  songs  where'er  they  roam; 

The  leaves  all  clap  their  little  hands; 
For  father's  ship  is  coming  home 

With  wondrous  things  from  foreign  lands. 

Gabriel  Seloun 


"WHO  HAS  SEEN  THE  WIND?" 

Who  has  seen  the  wind? 

Neither  I  nor  you: 
But  when  the  leaves  hang  trembling, 

The  wind  is  passing  through. 

Who  has  seen  the  wind  ? 

Neither  you  nor  I : 
But  when  the  trees  bow  down  their  heads, 

The  wind  is  passing  by. 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti 


THE  WIND 

I  saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high 
And  blow  the  birds  about  the  sky; 
And  all  around  I  heard  you  pass, 
Like  ladies'  skirts  across  the  grass — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song! 

I  saw  the  different  things  you  did, 
But  always  you  yourself  you  hid. 
I  felt  you  push,  I  heard  you  call, 
I  could  not  see  yourself  at  all — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song! 


248  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

O  you  that  are  so  strong  and  cold, 
O  blower,  are  you  young  or  old? 
Are  you  a  beast  of  field  and  tree 
Or  just  a  stronger  child  than  me? 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


GREEN  THINGS  GROWING 

0  the  green  things  growing,  the  green  things  growing, 
The  faint  sweet  smell  of  the  green  things  growing! 

1  should  like  to  live,  whether  I  smile  or  grieve, 

Just  to  watch  the  happy  life  of  my  green  things  growing. 

0  the  fluttering  and  the  pattering  of  those  green  things 

growing! 

How  they  talk  each  to  each,  when  none  of  us  are  knowing; 
In  the  wonderful  white  of  the  weird  moonlight 
Or  the  dim  dreamy  dawn  when  the  cocks  are  crowing. 

1  love,  I  love  them  so — my  green  things  growing! 
And  I  think  that  they  love  me,  without  false  showing; 
For  by  many  a  tender  touch,  they  comfort  me  so  much, 
With  the  soft  mute  comfort  of  green  things  growing. 

And  in  the  rich  store  of  their  blossoms  glowing 
Ten  for  one  I  take  they're  on  me  bestowing: 
Oh,  I  should  like  to  see,  if  God's  will  it  may  be, 
Many,  many  a  summer  of  my  green  things  growing! 

But  if  I  must  be  gathered  for  the  angel's  sowing, 
Sleep  out  of  sight  awhile,  like  the  green  things  growing, 
Though  dust  to  dust  return,  I  think  I'll  scarcely  mourn, 
If  I  may  change  into  green  things  growing. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  249 


A  CHANTED  CALENDAR 

First  came  the  primrose, 

On  the  bank  high, 

Like  a  maiden  looking  forth 

From  the  window  of  a  tower 

When  the  battle  rolls  below, 

So  looked  she, 

And  saw  the  storms  go  by. 

Then  came  the  wind-flower 
In  the  valley  left  behind, 
As  a  wounded  maiden,  pale 
With  purple  streaks  of  woe, 
When  the  battle  has  rolled  by 
Wanders  to  and  fro, 
So  tottered  she, 
Dishevelled  in  the  wind. 

Then  came  the  daisies, 

On  the  first  of  May, 

Like  a  bannered  show's  advance 

While  the  crowd  runs  by  the  way, 

With  ten  thousand  flowers  about  them, 

They  came  trooping  through  the  fields. 

As  a  happy  people  come, 

So  came  they, 

As  a  happy  people  come 

When  the  war  has  rolled  away, 

With  dance  and  tabor,  pipe  and  drum, 

And  all  make  holiday. 

Then  came  the  cowslip, 

Like  a  dancer  in  the  fair, 

She  spread  her  little  mat  of  green, 

And  on  it  danced  she. 


250  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

With  a  fillet  bound  about  her  brow, 
A  fillet  round  her  happy  brow, 
A  golden  fillet  round  her  brow, 
And  rubies  in  her  hair. 

Sydney  Dobell 


BUTTERCUPS 

There  must  be  fairy  miners 

Just  underneath  the  mould, 
Such  wondrous  quaint  designers 

Who  live  in  caves  of  gold. 

They  take  the  shining  metals, 

And  beat  them  into  shreds; 
And  mould  them  into  petals, 

To  make  the  flowers'  heads. 

Sometimes  they  melt  the  flowers 

To  tiny  seeds  like  pearls, 
And  store  them  up  in  bowers 

For  little  boys  and  girls. 

And  still  a  tiny  fan  turns 

Above  a  forge  of  gold, 
To  keep,  with  fairy  lanterns, 

The  world  from  growing  old. 

Wilfrid  Thorlcy 


TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon; 

As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  25 1 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  anything. 

We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

Robert  Herrick 


TO  THE  DAISY 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Daisy!  again  I  talk  to  thee, 

For  thou  art  worthy, 
Thou  unassuming  common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 

Which  love  makes  for  thee! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit,  and  play  with  similies, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising: 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame, 


252  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

As  is  the  humor  of  the  game, 
While  I  am  gazing. 

A  nun  demure  of  lowly  port; 

Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  dressed; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 
That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 
The  shape  will  vanish— and  behold 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold, 
That  spreads  itself,  some  fairy  bold 

In  fight  to  cover! 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star; 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest; — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest, 

Who  shall  reprove  thee! 

Bright  flower,  for  by  that  name  at  last, 

When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 

I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  creature! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  253 

My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 
Of  thy  meek  nature! 

William  Wordsworth 


LITTLE  DANDELION 

Gay  little  Dandelion 

Lights  up  the  meads, 
Swings  on  her  slender  foot, 

Telleth  her  beads, 
Lists  to  the  robin's  note 

Poured  from  above; 
Wise  little  Dandelion 

Asks  not  for  love. 

Cold  lie  the  daisy  banks 

Clothed  but  in  green, 
Where,  in  the  days  agone, 

Bright  hues  were  seen. 
Wild  pinks  are  slumbering, 

Violets  delay; 
True  little  Dandelion 

Greeteth  the  May. 

Brave  little  Dandelion! 

Fast  falls  the  snow, 
Bending  the  daffodil's 

Haughty  head  low. 
Under  that  fleecy  tent, 

Careless  of  cold, 
Blithe  little  Dandelion 

Counteth  her  gold. 

Meek  little  Dandelion 
Groweth  more  fair, 


254  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Till  dies  the  amber  dew 

Out  from  her  hair. 
High  rides  the  thirsty  sun, 

Fiercely  and  high; 
Faint  little  Dandelion 

Closeth  her  eye. 

Pale  little  Dandelion, 

In  her  white  shroud, 
Heareth  the  angel-breeze 

Call  from  the  cloud; 
Tiny  plumes  fluttering 

Make  no  delay; 
Little  winged  Dandelion 

Soareth  away. 

Helen  Barren  Bostwick 


TO  THE  DANDELION 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 
Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 

May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 

Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 

'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  255 

To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time: 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 

His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 

From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 
That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above, 

Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 

Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 

When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 


256  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

James  Russell  Lowell 


THE  IVY  GREEN 

Oh,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old! 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he. 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  Oak  Tree! 
And  slily  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
As  he  joyously  hugs  and  crawleth  round 

The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 

Creeping  where  grim  death  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  have  scattered  been; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade, 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  257 

The  brave  old  plant,  in  its  lonely  days, 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past: 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on,  where  time  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Charles  Dickens 


LITTLE  WHITE  LILY 

Little  White  Lily  sat  by  a  stone, 
Drooping  and  waiting  till  the  sun  shone. 
Little  White  Lily  sunshine  has  fed; 
Little  White  Lily  is  lifting  her  head. 

Little  White  Lily  said:  "It  is  good, 
Little  White  Lily's  clothing  and  food." 
Little  White  Lily  dressed  like  a  bride! 
Shining  with  whiteness,  and  crowned  beside! 

Little  White  Lily  drooping  with  pain, 
Waiting  and  waiting  for  the  wet  rain, 
Little  White  Lily  holdeth  her  cup; 
Rain  is  fast  falling  and  filling  it  up. 

Little  White  Lily  said:  "Good  again, 
When  I  am  thirsty  to  have  the  nice  rain. 
Now  I  am  stronger,  now  I  am  cool; 
Heat  cannot  burn  me,  my  veins  are  so  full." 

Little  White  Lily  smells  very  sweet; 
On  her  head  sunshine,  rain  at  her  feet. 
Thanks  to  the  sunshine,  thanks  to  the  rain, 
Little  White  Lily  is  happy  again. 

George  Macdonald 


258  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 

By  the  dusty  roadside, 

On  the  sunny  hillside, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  everywhere; 

All  round  the  open  door, 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor; 

Here  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 

Toiling  his  busy  part, — 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming; 
For  in  the  starry  night, 
And  the  glad  morning  light, 

I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 
More  welcome  than  the  flowers 
In  summer's  pleasant  hours; 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 

To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  259 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 

My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  joyfully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Sarah  Roberts  Boyle 


THE  GRASS 

The  grass  so  little  has  to  do, — 

A  sphere  of  simple  green, 
With  only  butterflies  to  brood, 

And  bees  to  entertain, 

And  stir  all  day  to  pretty  tunes 

The  breezes  fetch  along, 
And  hold  the  sunshine  in  its  lap 

And  bow  to  everything; 

And  thread  the  dews  all  night,  like  pearls, 

And  make  itself  so  fine, — 
A  duchess  were  too  common 

For  such  a  noticing. 

And  even  when  it  dies,  to  pass 

In  odors  so  divine, 
As  lowly  spices  gone  to  sleep, 

Or  amulets  of  pine. 

And  then  to  dwell  in  sovereign  barns, 

And  dream  the  days  away, — 
The  grass  so  little  has  to  do, 

I  wish  I  were  the  hay  I 

Emily  Dickinson 


260 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


'WHEN  IN  THE  WOODS  I  WANDER  ALL  ALON] 

When  in  the  woods  I  wander  all  alone, 
The  woods  that  are  my  solace  and  delight, 
Which  I  more  covet  than  a  prince's  throne, 
My  toil  by  day  and  canopy  by  night; 
(Light  heart,  light  foot,  light  food,  and  slumber  light, 
These  lights  shall  light  us  to  old  age's  gate, 
While  monarchs,  whom  rebellious  dreams  affright, 
Heavy  with  fear,  death's  fearful  summons  wait;) 
Whilst  here  I  wander,  pleased  to  be  alone, 
Weighing  in  thought  the  world's  no-happiness, 
I  cannot  choose  but  wonder  at  its  moan, 
Since  so  plain  joys  the  woody  life  can  bless: 
Then  live  who  may  where  honied  words  prevail, 
I  with  the  deer,  and  with  the  nightingale! 

Edward  Hovell-Thurlow 


TREES 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  pressed 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 


Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 


Joyce  Kilmtr 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  261 


THE  TREE 

The  tree's  early  leaf-buds  were  bursting  their  brown: 
"Shall  I  take  them  away?"  said  the  frost,  sweeping  down. 
"No,  dear;  leave  them  alone 
Till  blossoms  here  have  grown," 
Prayed  the  tree,  while  it  trembled  from  rootlet  to  crown. 

The  tree  bore  its  blossoms,  and  all  the  birds  sung: 
"Shall  I  take  them  away?"  said  the  wind,  as  it  swung. 

"No,  dear;  leave  them  alone 

Till  berries  here  have  grown," 
Said  the  tree,  while  its  leaflets  all  quivering  hung. 

The  tree  bore  its  fruit  in  the  midsummer  glow: 
Said  the  girl,  "May  I  gather  thy  berries  or  no?" 

"Yes,  dear,  all  thou  canst  see; 

Take  them;  all  are  for  thee," 
Said  the  tree,  while  it  bent  its  laden  boughs  low. 

Bjornstjerne  Bjornson 


PLANT  A  TREE 

He  who  plants  a  tree 
Plants  a  hope. 

Rootlets  up  through  fibers  blindly  grope; 

Leaves  unfold  into  horizons  free. 
So  man's  life  must  climb 
From  the  clods  of  time 
Unto  heavens  sublime. 

Canst  thou  prophesy,  thou  little  tree, 

What  the  glory  of  thy  boughs  shall  be? 

He  who  plants  a  tree 

Plants  a  joy; 
Plants  a  comfort  that  will  never  cloy; 


262  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Every  day  a  fresh  reality, 

Beautiful  and  strong, 
To  whose  shelter  throng 
Creatures  blithe  with  song. 

If  thou  couldst  but  know,  thou  happy  tree, 

Of  the  bliss  that  shall  inhabit  thee! 

He  who  plants  a  tree, — 

He  plants  peace. 

Under  its  green  curtains  jargons  cease. 
Leaf  and  zephyr  murmur  soothingly; 

Shadows  soft  with  sleep 

Down  tired  eyelids  creep, 

Balm  of  slumber  deep. 

Never  hast  thou  dreamed,  thou  blessed  tree, 
Of  the  benediction  thou  shalt  be. 

He  who  plants  a  tree, — 

He  plants  youth; 
Vigor  won  for  centuries  in  sooth; 
Life  of  time,  that  hints  eternity! 

Boughs  their  strength  uprear; 

New  shoots,  every  year 

On  old  growths  appear; 
Thou  shalt  teach  the  ages,  sturdy  tree, 
Youth  of  soul  is  immortality. 

He  who  plants  a  tree, — 

He  plants  love; 

Tents  of  coolness  spreading  out  above 
Wayfarers,  he  may  not  live  to  see. 

Gifts  that  grow  are  best; 

Hands  that  bless  are  blest; 

Plant!  life  does  the  rest! 

Heaven  and  earth  help  him  who  plants  a  tree, 
And  bds  work  its  own  reward  shall  be. 

Lucy  Larcom 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  263 


"WHAT  DO  WE  PLANT?" 

W7hat  do  we  plant  when  we  plant  the  tree? 
We  plant  the  ship,  which  will  cross  the  sea. 
We  plant  the  mast  to  carry  the  sails; 
We  plant  the  planks  to  withstand  the  gales — 
The  keel,  the  keelson,  the  beam,  the  knee; 
We  plant  the  ship  when  we  plant  the  tree. 

What  do  we  plant  when  we  plant  the  tree? 
We  plant  the  houses  for  you  and  me. 
We  plant  the  rafters,  the  shingles,  the  floors, 
We  plant  the  studding,  the  lath,  the  doors, 
The  beams  and  siding,  all  parts  that  be; 
We  plant  the  house  when  we  plant  the  tree. 

What  do  we  plant  when  we  plant  the  tree? 
A  thousand  things  that  we  daily  see; 
We  plant  the  spire  that  out-towers  the  crag, 
We  plant  the  staff  for  our  country's  flag, 
We  plant  the  shade,  from  the  hot  sun  free; 
We  plant  all  these  when  we  plant  the  tree. 

Henry  Abbey 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet, 
W7e  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 


264  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt,  and  sing,  and  hide  her  nest; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard-row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  265 

Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 
The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree? 

"Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say; 


266  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 

The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them: 

"A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes, 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE 

Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue, 
Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 

Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  hallo; 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nursed  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confined, 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  every  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 
And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regaled, 

On  pippins'  russet  peel; 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  failed, 

Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 

A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 
Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  267 

To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn, 
And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear; 
But  most  before  approaching  showers, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round-rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away, 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humor's  sake, 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made  it  ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now,  beneath  this  walnut-shade 

He  finds  his  long,  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks 

From  which  no  care  can  save, 
And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 

Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 

William  Cowper 


OBITUARY 

Finding  Francesca  full  of  tears,  I  said, 
"Tell  me  thy  trouble!"    "Oh,  my  dog  is  dead! 
Murdered  by  poison! — no  one  knows  for  what! — 
Was  ever  dog  born  capable  of  that?" 


268  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

"Child," — I  began  to  say,  but  checked  my  thought, — 

"A  better  dog  can  easily  be  bought." 

For  no — what  animal  could  him  replace? 

Those  loving  eyes!    That  fond,  confiding  face! 

Those  dear,  dumb  touches!    Therefore  I  was  dumb. 

From  word  of  mine  could  any  comfort  come? 

A  bitter  sorrow  'tis  to  lose  a  brute 

Friend,  dog  or  horse,  for  grief  must  then  be  mute, — 

So  many  smile  to  see  the  rivers  shed 

Of  tears  for  one  poor,  speechless  creature  dead. 

When  parents  die  there's  many  a  word  to  say — 

Kind  words,  consoling — one  can  always  pray; 

When  children  die  'tis  natural  to  tell 

Their  mother,  "Certainly,  with  them  'tis  well!" 

But  for  a  dog,  'twas  all  the  life  he  had, 

Since  death  is  end  of  dogs,  or  good  or  bad. 

This  was  his  world;  he  was  contented  here; 

Imagined  nothing  better,  naught  more  dear, 

Than  his  young  mistress;  sought  no  brighter  sphere; 

Having  no  sin,  asked  not  to  be  forgiven; 

Ne'er  guessed  at  God  nor  ever  dreamed  of  heaven. 

Now  he  has  passed  away,  so  much  of  love 

Goes  from  our  life,  without  one  hope  above! 

When  a  dog  dies  there's  nothing  to  be  said 

But — kiss  me,  darling!  dear  old  Smiler's  dead. 

Thomas  William  Parsons 


THE  TIGER 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  269 

On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And,  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  Lamb,  make  thee? 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

William  Blake 


THE  SNAIL 

To  grass,  or  leaf,  or  fruit,  or  wall, 
The  Snail  sticks  close,  nor  fears  to  fall, 
As  if  he  grew  there,  house  and  all 

Together. 

Within  that  house  secure  he  hides, 
When  danger  imminent  betides 
Of  storm,  or  other  harm  besides 

Of  weather. 


270  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Give  but  his  horns  the  slightest  touch, 
His  self-collecting  power  is  such, 
He  shrinks  into  his  house  with  much 

Displeasure. 

Where'er  he  dwells,  he  dwells  alone, 
Except  himself,  has  chattels  none, 
Well  satisfied  to  be  his  own 

Whole  treasure. 

Thus,  hermit-like,  his  life  he  leads, 
Nor  partner  of  his  banquet  needs, 
And  if  he  meets  one,  only  feeds 

The  faster. 

Who  seeks  him  must  be  worse  than  blind 
(He  and  his  house  are  so  combined), 
If,  finding  it,  he  fails  to  find 
Its  master. 
From  the  Latin  of  Vincent  Bourne, 

by  William  Cow  per 


THE  HUMBLE-BEE 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion! 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  2  7 1 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean  of  June; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance, 

And  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  birdlike  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple-sap  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky, 


272  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's  tongue 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


TO  AN  INSECT 

I  love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks, — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they, — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill; 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  273 

I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree, — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids, — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea? 

Oh,  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 

And  what  did  Katy  do? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one? 
I  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me!    I'll  tell  you  all  about 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue, — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do? 

Ah  no!  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 


274  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice, 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


THE  CRICKET 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  I  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expressed, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 
Thou  hast  all  thy  heart's  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song, 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill,  and  clear 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  275 

Neither  night  nor  dawn  of  day 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  play: 
Sing  then — and  extend  thy  span 
Far  beyond  the  date  of  man; 
Wretched  man,  whose  years  are  spent 
In  repining  discontent, 
Lives  not,  aged  though  he  be, 
Half  a  span,  compared  with  thee. 

From  the  Latin  of  Vincent  Bourne, 

by  William  Cowper 


GRASSHOPPER  GREEN 

Grasshopper  Green  is  a  comical  chap; 

He  lives  on  the  best  of  fare. 
Bright  little  trousers,  jacket,  and  cap, 

These  are  his  summer  wear. 
Out  in  the  meadow  he  loves  to  go, 

Playing  away  in  the  sun; 
It's  hopperty,  skipperty,  high  and  low, 

Summer's  the  time  for  fun. 

Grasshopper  Green  has  a  quaint  little  house; 

It's  under  the  hedge  so  gay. 
Grandmother  Spider,  as  still  as  a  mouse, 

Watches  him  over  the  way. 
Gladly  he's  calling  the  children,  I  know 

Out  in  the  beautiful  sun; 
It's  hopperty,  skipperty,  high  and  low, 

Summer's  the  time  for  fun. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be 

In  happiness  compared  to  thee? 


276  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 

The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill; 

'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature's  selPs  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing, 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee; 

All  the  summer  hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plow, 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou! 

Thou  dost  innocently  enjoy; 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripened  year! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect!  happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know; 

But  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous,  and  wise  withal, 

Epicurean  animal!) 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 

AJter  Anacrfon,  by  Abraham  Cowley 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  277 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BIRD 

We  wish  to  declare  how  the  birds  of  the  air 

All  high  Institutions  designed, 
And  holding  in  awe  Art,  Science,  and  Law, 

Delivered  the  same  to  mankind. 
To  begin  with:  of  old,  Man  went  naked  and  cold 

Whenever  it  pelted  or  froze, 

Till   we   showed   him   how   feathers   were   proof  against 
weathers; 

With  that  he  bethought  him  of  hose. 
And  next  it  was  plain  that  he  in  the  rain 

Was  forced  to  sit  dripping  and  blind, 
While  the  reed-warbler  swung  in  a  nest  with  her  young, 

Deep-sheltered  and  warm  from  the  wind. 
So  our  homes  in  the  boughs  made  him  think  of  the  house; 

And  the  swallow,  to  help  him  invent, 
Revealed  the  best  way  to  economise  clay, 

And  bricks  to  combine  with  cement. 
The  knowledge  withal  of  the  carpenter's  awl 

Is  drawn  from  the  nuthatch's  bill, 
And  the  sand-marten's  pains  in  the  hazel-clad  lanes 

Instructed  the  mason  to  drill. 
Is  there  one  of  the  arts  more  dear  to  men's  hearts, 

To  the  birds'  inspiration  they  owe  it, 
For  the  nightingale  first  sweet  music  rehearsed, 

Prima  Donna,  composer,  and  poet. 
The  owls'  dark  retreats  showed  sages  the  sweets 

Of  brooding  to  spin  or  unravel 
Fine  webs  in  one's  brain,  philosophical,  vain, — 

The  swallows  the  pleasures  of  travel, 
Who  chirped  in  such  strain  of  Greece,  Italy,  Spain, 

And  Egypt,  that  men,  when  they  heard, 
Were  mad  to  fly  forth  from  their  nests  in  the  north, 

And  follow  the  trail  of  the  bird. 

W.  J.  Courthope 


278  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say?    The  Sparrow,  the  Dove, 

The  Linnet  and  Thrush  say,  "I  love  and  I  love!" 

In  the  winter  they're  silent — the  wind  is  so  strong; 

What  it  says,  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud  song. 

But  green  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm  weather, 

And  singing,  and  loving — all  come  back  together. 

But  the  Lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 

The  green*  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 

That  he  sings,  and  he  sings,  and  for  ever  sings  he — 

"I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me!" 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  NEST 

They'll  come  again  to  the  apple  tree — 

Robin  and  all  the  rest — 
When  the  orchard  branches  are  fair  to  see, 

In  the  snow  of  the  blossom  dressed; 
And  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world  will  be 

The  building  of  the  nest. 

Weaving  it  well,  so  round  and  trim, 

Hollowing  it  with  care,— 
Nothing  too  far  away  for  him, 

Nothing  for  her  too  fair,— 
Hanging  it  safe  on  the  topmost  limb, 

Their  castle  in  the  air. 

Ah!  mother  bird,  you'll  have  weary  days 
When  the  eggs  are  under  your  breast, 

And  shadow  may  darken  the  dancing  rays 
When  the  wee  ones  leave  the  nest; 

But  they'll  find  their  wings  in  a  glad  amaze, 
And  God  will  see  to  the  rest. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  279 

So  come  to  the  trees  with  all  your  train 

When  the  apple  blossoms  blow; 
Through  the  April  shimmer  of  sun  and  rain, 

Go  flying  to  and  fro; 
And  sing  to  our  hearts  as  we  watch  again 

Your  fairy  building  grow. 

Margaret  Sangster 


BOB  WHITE 

There's  a  plump  little  chap  in  a  speckled  coat, 
And  he  sings  on  the  zigzag  rails  remote, 
Where  he  whistles  at  breezy,  bracing  morn, 
When  the  buckwheat  is  ripe,  and  stacked  is  the  corn, 
"Bob  White!  Bob  White!  Bob  White!" 

Is  he  hailing  some  comrade  as  blithe  as  he? 
Now  I  wonder  where  Robert  White  can  be! 
O'er  the  billows  of  gold  and  amber  grain 
There  is  no  one  in  sight — but,  hark  again: 

"Bob  White!  Bob  White!  Bob  White!" 

Ah!  I  see  why  he  calls;  in  the  stubble  there 
Hide  his  plump  little  wife  and  babies  fair! 
So  contented  is  he,  and  so  proud  of  the  same, 
That  he  wants  all  the  world  to  know  his  name: 
"Bob  White!  Bob  White!  Bob  White!" 

George  Cooper 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 

Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name: 


280  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link? 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 


Robert  of  Lincoln's  'Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Brood,  kind  creature;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 


Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  281 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes;  the  children  are  grown; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 


282  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


THE  O'LINCON  FAMILY 

A  flock  of  merry  singing-birds  were  sporting  in  the  grove; 
Some  were  warbling  cheerily,  and  some  were  making  love: 
There  were  Bobolincon,  Wadolincon,  Winterseeble,  Con- 

quedle, — 

A  livelier  set  was  never  led  by  tabor,  pipe,  or  fiddle, — 
Crying,  "Phew,  shew,  Wadolincon,  see,  see,  Bobolincon, 
Down  among  the  tickletops,  hiding  in  the  buttercups! 
I  know  a  saucy  chap,  I  see  his  shining  cap 
Bobbing  in  the  clover  there — see,  see,  see!" 

Up  flies  Bobolincon,  perching  on  an  apple-tree, 
Startled  by  his  rival's  song,  quickened  by  his  raillery, 
Soon  he  spies  the  rogue  afloat,  curveting  in  the  air, 
And  merrily  he  turns  about,  and  warns  him  to  beware! 
"Tis  you  that  would  a-wooing  go,  down  among  the  rushes 

O! 
But  wait  a  week,  till  flowers  are  cheery, — wait  a  week,  and, 

ere  you  marry, 

Be  sure  of  a  house  wherein  to  tarry! 
Wadolink,  Whiskodink,  Tom  Denny,  wait,  wait,  wait!" 

Every  one's  a  funny  fellow;  every  one's  a  little  mellow; 

Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  o'er  the  hill  and  in  the 
hollow! 

Merrily,  merrily,  there  they  hie;  now  they  rise  and  now 
they  fly; 

They  cross  and  turn,  and  in  and  out,  and  down  in  the  mid- 
dle and  wheel  about,— 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  283 

With  a  "Phew,  shew,  Wadolincon!  listen  to  me,  Bobo- 
lincon!— 

Happy's  the  wooing  that's  speedily  doing,  that's  speedily 
doing, 

That's  merry  and  over  with  the  bloom  of  the  clover! 

Bobolincon,  Wadolincon,  Winterseeble,  follow,  follow,  fol- 
low me!" 

Wilson  Flagg 

THE  JACKDAW 

There  is  a  bird,  who  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 

Might  be  supposed  a  crow; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  church, 
Where  bishop-like  he  finds  a  perch, 

And  dormitory  too. 

Above  the  steeple  shines  .a  plate, 
That  turns  and  turns,  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather; 
Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
'Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him, 

He  chooses  it  the  rather. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight, 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  raree-show, 
That  occupy  mankind  below, 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muses 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises, 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 
No:  not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate, 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 


284  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

He  sees  that  this  great  roundabout, 
The  world,  with  all  its  medley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law, 
Its  customs,  and  its  businesses, 
Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his, 

And  says — what  says  he? — "Caw." 

Thrice  happy  bird!    I  too  have  seen 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men; 

And,  sick  of  having  seen  'em, 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine, 
And  such  a  head  between  'em. 

From  the  Latin  of  Vincent  Bourne, 

by  William  Cozvper 


SONG:  THE  OWL 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 

And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 

And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  285 


ROBIN  REDBREAST 

Sweet  Robin,  I  have  heard  them  say 
That  thou  wert  there  upon  the  day 
The  Christ  was  crowned  in  cruel  scorn 
And  bore  away  one  bleeding  thorn, — 
That  so  the  blush  upon  thy  breast, 
In  shameful  sorrow,  was  impressed; 
And  thence  thy  genial  sympathy 
With  our  redeemed  humanity. 

Sweet  Robin,  would  that  I  might  be 
Bathed  in  my  Saviour's  blood,  like  thee; 
Bear  in  my  breast,  whate'er  the  loss, 
The  bleeding  blazon  of  the  cross; 
Live  ever,  with  thy  loving  mind, 
In  fellowship  with  human-kind; 
And  take  my  pattern  still  from  thee, 
In  gentleness  and  constancy. 

George  Washington  Doane 

THE  SANDPIPER 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 
Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky; 

Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 
Stand  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 


286  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye: 
Staunch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky: 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I? 

Celia  Thaxter 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler! — that  love-prompted  strain 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  287 

-'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond — 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain: 
Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege!  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine: 

Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam — 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home! 

William  Wordsworth 


THE  SKYLARK 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away! 


288  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee! 

James  Hogg 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  light'ning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O.'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight — 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  289 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody — 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the 
view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 
In  its  own  green  leaves, 


290  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves: 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers — 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh — thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt— 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  291 

Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet,  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  1  am  listening  now. 

Percy  By s she  Shelley 


THE  THROSTLE 

"Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming, 

I  know  it,  1  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again," 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 


292  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"New,  new,  new,  new!"    Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly? 

"Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  again," 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

"Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year!" 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden.    . 

Alfred  Tennyson 


THE  BROWN  THRUSH 

There's  a  merry  brown  thrush  sitting  up  in  the  tree. 
"He's  singing  to  me!    He's  singing  to  me!" 

And  what  does  he  say,  little  girl,  little  boy? 
"Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy! 
Don't  you  hear?    Don't  you  see? 
Hush!    Look!    In  my  tree, 
I'm  as  happy  as  happy  can  be!" 

And  the  brown  thrush  keeps  singing,  "A  nest  do  you  see 
And  five  eggs  hid  by  me  in  the  juniper  tree? 

Don't  meddle!     Don't  touch!  little  girl,  little  boy, 
Or  the  world  will  lose  some  of  its  joy! 
Now  I'm  glad!    Now  I'm  free! 
And  I  always  shall  be, 
If  you  never  bring  sorrow  to  me." 

So  the  merry  brown  thrush  sings  away  in  the  tree, 
To  you  and  to  me,  to  you  and  to  me; 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  293 

And  he  sings  all  the  day,  little  girl,  little  boy, 
"Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy! 

But  long  it  won't  be, 

Don't  you  know?    Don't  you  see? 

Unless  we're  as  good  as  can  be." 

Lucy  Larcom 

CHANTICLEER 

Of  all  the  birds  from  East  to  West 

That  tuneful  are  and  dear, 
I  love  that  farmyard  bird  the  best, 

They  call  him  Chanticleer. 

Gold  plume  and  copper  plume, 

Comb  of  scarlet  gay; 
'Tis  he  that  scatters  night  and  gloom, 

And  whistles  back  the  day! 

He  is  the  sun's  brave  herald 

That,  ringing  his  blithe  horn, 
Calls  round  a  world  dew-pearled 

The  heavenly  airs  of  morn. 

O  clear  gold,  shrill  and  bold! 

He  calls  through  creeping  mist 
The  mountains  from  the  night  and  cold  « 

To  rose  and  amethyst. 

He  sets  the  birds  to  singing, 

And  calls  the  flowers  to  rise; 
The  morning  cometh,  bringing 

Sweet  sleep  to  heavy  eyes. 

Gold  plume  and  silver  plume, 

Comb  of  coral  gay; 
'  Tis  he  packs  off  the  night  and  gloom, 

And  summons  home  the  day! 


294  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

Black  fear  he  sends  it  flying, 

Black  care  he  drives  afar; 
And  creeping  shadows  sighing 

Before  the  morning  star. 

The  birds  of  all  the  forest 

Have  dear  and  pleasant  cheer, 

But  yet  I  hold  the  rarest 
The  farmyard  Chanticleer. 

Red  cock  or  black  cock, 

Gold  cock  or  white, 
The  flower  of  all  the  feathered  flock, 

He  whistles  back  the  light! 

Katharine  Tynan 


"A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA' 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free— 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  295 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham 


THE  SEA 

The  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds;  it  mocks  the  skies; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea!    I'm  on  the  sea! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter?    7  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  0,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou' west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 


296  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean-child ! 

I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for  change; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 

Head  the  ship  for  England! 

Shake  out  every  sail! 
Blithe  leap  the  billows, 

Merry  sings  the  gale. 
Captain,  work  the  reckoning; 

How  many  knots  a  day?— 
Round  the  world  and  home  again, 

That's  the  sailor's  way! 

We've  traded  with  the  Yankees, 

Brazilians  and  Chinese; 
We've  laughed  with  dusky  beauties 

In  shade  of  tall  palm-trees; 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  297 

Across  the  line  and  Gulf-Stream — 

Round  by  Table  Bay- 
Everywhere  and  home  again, 

That's  the  sailor's  way! 

Nightly  stands  the  North  Star 

Higher  on  our  bow; 
Straight  we  run  for  England; 

Our  thoughts  are  in  it  now. 
Jolly  times  with  friends  ashore, 

When  we've  drawn  our  pay! — 
All  about  and  home  again, 

That's  the  sailor's  way! 

William  Allingham 


THE  SEA  GIPSY 

I  am  fevered  with  the  sunset, 
I  am  fretful  with  the  bay, 
For  the  wander-thirst  is  on  me 
And  my  soul  is  in  Cathay. 

There's  a  schooner  in  the  offing, 
With  her  topsails  shot  with  fire, 
And  my  heart  has  gone  aboard  her 
For  the  Islands  of  Desire. 

I  must  forth  again  to-morrow!1 
With  the  sunset  I  must  be 
Hull  down  on  the  trail  of  rapture 
In  the  wonder  of  the  Sea. 

Richard  Hovsy 


298  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 


SEA  FEVER 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the 

sky, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white 

sail's  shaking, 
And  the  gray  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a  gray  dawn 

breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running 
tide 

Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying, 

And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea- 
gulls crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant  gipsy  life, 
To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the  wind's 

like  a  whetted  knife; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow-rover, 
And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trick's 

over. 

John  Masefifld 


THE  VAGABOND 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lave  go  by  me, 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 

And  the  byway  nigh  me. 
Bed  in  the  bush  with  stars  to  see, 

Bread  I  dip  in  the  river— 
There's  the  life  for  a  man  like  me, 

There's  the  life  for  ever. 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  299 

Or  let  autumn  fall  on  me 
Where  afield  I  linger, 

Silencing  the  bird  on  tree, 
Biting  the  blue  finger. 

White  as  meal  the  frosty  field- 
Warm  the  fireside  haven — 

Not  to  autumn  will  I  yield, 
Not  to  winter  even! 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around, 

And  the  road  before  me. 
Wealth  I  ask  not,  hope  nor  love, 

Nor  a  friend  to  know  me; 
All  I  ask,  the  heaven  above 

And  the  road  below  me. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


THE  JOYS  OF  THE  ROAD 

Now  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these: 
A  crimson  touch  on  the  hard-wood  trees; 

A  vagrant's  morning  wide  and  blue, 
In  early  fall,  when  the  wind  walks,  too; 

A  shadowy  highway  cool  and  brown 
Alluring  up  and  enticing  down 

From  rippled  water  to  dappled  swamp, 
From  purple  glory  to  scarlet  pomp; 

The  outward  eye,  the  quiet  will, 

And  the  striding  heart  from  hill  to  hill; 


300  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

The  tempter  apple  over  the  fence; 

The  cobweb  bloom  on  the  yellow  quince; 

The  palish  asters  along  the  wood, — 
A  lyric  touch  of  the  solitude; 

An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe, 

And  a  hope  to  make  the  day  go  through, — 

Another  to  sleep  with,  and  a  third 
To  wake  me  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird; 

The  resonant  far-listening  morn, 
And  the  hoarse  whisper  of  the  corn; 

The  crickets  mourning  their  comrades  lost, 
In  the  night's  retreat  from  the  gathering  frost; 

(Or  is  it  their  slogan,  plaintive  and  shrill, 

As  they  beat  on  their  corselets,  valiant  still?) 

A  hunger  fit  for  the  kings  of  the  sea, 
And  a  loaf  of  bread  for  Dickon  and  me; 

A  thirst  like  that  of  the  Thirsty  Sword, 
And  a  jug  of  cider  on  the  board; 

An  idle  noon,  a  bubbling  spring, 
The  sea  in  the  pine-tops  murmuring; 

A  scrap  of  gossip  at  the  ferry; 

A  comrade  neither  glum  nor  merry, 

Asking  nothing,  revealing  naught, 

But  minting  his  words  from  a  fund  of  thought, 


THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD  301 

A  keeper  of  silence  eloquent, 
Needy,  yet  royally  well  content, 

Of  the  mettled  breed,  yet  abhorring  strife, 
And  full  of  the  mellow  juice  of  life, 

No  fidget  and  no  reformer,  just 
A  calm  observer  of  ought  and  must, 

A  lover  of  books,  but  a  reader  of  man, 
No  cynic  and  no  charlatan, 

Who  never  defers  and  never  demands, 

But,  smiling,  takes  the  world  in  his  hands, — 

Seeing  it  good  as  when  God  first  saw 
And  gave  it  the  weight  of  His  will  for  law. 

And  O  the  joy  that  is  never  won, 

But  follows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun, 

By  marsh  and  tide,  by  meadow  and  stream, 
A  will-o'-the-wind,  a  light-o'-dream, 

Delusion  afar,  delight  anear, 

From  morrow  to  morrow,  from  year  to  year, 

A  jack-o'-lantern,  a  fairy  fire, 
A  dare,  a  bliss,  and  a  desire! 

The  racy  smell  of  the  forest  loam, 

When  the  stealthy,  sad-heart  leaves  go  home; 

(O  leaves,  O  leaves,  I  am  one  with  you, 

Of  the  mould  and  the  sun  and  the  wind  and  the  dew!) 


302  THIS  WONDERFUL  WORLD 

The  broad  gold  wake  of  the  afternoon; 
The  silent  fleck  of  the  cold  new  moon; 

The  sound  of  the  hollow  sea's  release 
From  stormy  tumult  to  starry  peace; 

With  only  another  league  to  wend; 

And  two  brown  arms  at  the  journey's  end! 

These  are  the  joys  of  the  open  road— 
For  him  who  travels  without  a  load. 

Bliss  Carman 


.  Stories  to  Rhyme 


THE  LAND  OF  STORY-BOOKS 

At  evening  when  the  lamp  is  lit, 
Around  the  fire  my  parents  sit; 
They  sit  at  home  and  talk  and  sing, 
And  do  not  play  at  anything. 

Now,  with  my  little  gun,  I  crawl 
All  in  the  dark  along  the  wall, 
And  follow  round  the  forest  track 
Away  behind  the  sofa  back. 

There,  in  the  night,  where  none  can  spy, 
All  in  my  hunter's  camp  I  lie, 
And  play  at  books  that  I  have  read 
Till  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed. 

These  are  the  hills,  these  are  the  woods, 
These  are  my  starry  solitudes; 
And  there  the  river  by  whose  brink 
The  roaring  lions  come  to  drink. 

I  see  the  others  far  away 
As  if  in  firelit  camp  they  lay, 
And  I,  like  to  an  Indian  scout, 
Around  their  party  prowled  about, 

So,  when  my  nurse  comes  in  for  me, 
Home  I  return  across  the  sea, 
And  go  to  bed  with  backward  looks 
At  my  dear  land  of  Story-books. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  seventy-five; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light, — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  "Good  night!"  and  with  muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 

305 


306 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 

A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well!" 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,— 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  307 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet: 

That  was  all!    And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

it  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 


308  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed. 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.    In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,— 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farmyard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  309 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

Henry  Wadsworih  Longfellow 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

[OCTOBER  19,  1864] 

Up  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 
A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down: 
And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 
A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 
Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight; 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 
He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed; 
Hills  rose  and  fell,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprang  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  south, 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 


310 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind; 
And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 
Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire; 
But,  lo!  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops; 
What  was  done?  what  to  do?  a  glance  told  him  both, 
Then,  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say: 
"I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  town  to  save  the  day!" 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  horse  and  man! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 

The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 

There,  with  the  glorious  general's  name, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  311 

Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright: 
"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away!" 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 

[SEPTEMBER  13,  1862] 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall; 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 


312  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt!" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"Fire!" — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word; 

"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!    March  on!"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  313 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 


HERVE  RIEL 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two, 

Did  the  English  fight  the  French, — woe  to  France! 
And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through  the 

blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks  pur- 
sue, 

Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  Saint  Malo  on  the  Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


314 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


'Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full 

chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  .ship,  Dam- 

freville; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
''Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us  quick — or, 

quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will!" 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt  on 

board; 
"Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these  to 

pass?"  laughed  they: 
"Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage  scarred 

and  scored, 

Shall  the  Formidable  here,  with  her  twelve-and-eighty  guns, 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow 

way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons, 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside  ? 

Now,  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 

Reach  the  mooring?    Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 

Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay!" 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate: 

"Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you  have  them 

take  in  tow 

All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground!" 
(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  315 

"Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 

Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the 

beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

"Give  the  word!"    But  no  such  word 

Was  ever  spoke  or  heard; 

For  up  stood,  for  out   stepped,  for  in   struck   amid   all 

these 
— A  Captain?     A  Lieutenant?     A  Mate — first,   second, 

third? 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for  the 

fleet, 
A  poor  coasting  pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the  Croisickese. 

And  "What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here?"  cries  Herve 

Riel: 
"Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?    Are  you  cowards,  fools,  or 

rogues  ? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the  soundings, 

tell 

On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the  river  disem- 
bogues ? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold  ?     Is  it  love  the  lying's 

for? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 

Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?    That  were  worse  than 

fifty  Hogues! 

Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth!    Sirs,  believe  me 
there's  a  way! 


316 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 

And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, — 

—Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 

Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life, — here's  my  head!"  cries 
Herve  Riel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

" Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron!"  cried 

its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 

Keeps  the  passage,  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  seas 
profound ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 

Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the 
ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past. 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last, 

And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  " Anchor!" — sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come, — too  late! 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm: 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  317 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away! 

'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee!" 
'How  hope   succeeds  despair  on   each   Captain's  counte- 
nance! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing!" 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"HerveRiel!" 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips: 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 
Demand  whate'er  you  wrill, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 

Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have!  or  my  name's  not  Dam- 
freville." 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue: 
"Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 


318  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but  a 

run? — 

Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may— 
Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come!    A  good  whole  holiday! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle 

Aurore!" 
That  he  asked  and  that  he  got, — nothing  more. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  or  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack, 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  \vhom  had  gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England 

bore  the  bell: 
Go  to  Paris:  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank! 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herve  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy  wife  the  Belle 
Aurore! 

Robert  Browning 


"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM 
GHENT  TO  AIX" 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 

"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  319 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  wre  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pjgue  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker~the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 
At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 
And   from   Mecheln   church-steeple   we   heard   the   half- 
chime, 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time!" 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray: 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris  "Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her, 
We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 


320  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looze  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath    our   feet    broke  the    brittle   bright   stubble   like 

chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight! 

"How    they'll    greet    us!" — and    all    in    a    moment    his 

roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called    my    Roland    his    pet-name,    my    horse    without 

peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or 

good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is, — friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
\\  liich  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from 
Ghent. 

Robert  Browning 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  321 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 

[AUGUST  13,  1704] 

It  was  a  summer  evening; 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage-door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild,  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
That  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found: 
She  ran  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"I  find  them  in  my  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about; 
And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wender-waiting  eyes; 


322  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

"Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 

And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 
I  could  not  well  make  out; 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

"That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

"My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burned  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  baby,  died; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun: 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  won 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing!" 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"It  was  a  famous  victory. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  323 

"And  everybody  praised  the  Duke, 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he; 
"But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 

Robert  Southey 


A  STORY  FOR  A  CHILD 

Little  one,  come  to  my  knee! 

Hark,  how  the  rain  is  pouring 
Over  the  roof,  in  the  pitch-black  night, 

And  the  wind  in  the  woods  a-roaring! 

Hush,  my  darling,  and  listen, 

Then  pay  for  the  story  with  kisses; 

Father  was  lost  in  the  pitch-black  night, 
In  just  such  a  storm  as  this  is! 

High  up  on  the  lonely  mountains, 

Where  the  wild  men  watched  and  waited; 

Wolves  in  the  forest,  and  bears  in  the  bush, 
And  I  on  my  path  belated. 

The  rain  and  the  night  together 

Came  down,  and  the  wind  came  after, 

Bending  the  props  of  the  pine-tree  roof, 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 

I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned,  and  bruised,  and  blinded, — 

Crept  to  a  fir  with  thick-set  boughs, 
And  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it. 

There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining, 
Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me: 


324  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Something  rustled,  two  green  eyes  shone, 
And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 

Little  one,  be  not  frightened; 

I  and  the  wolf  together, 
Side  by  side,  through  the  long,  long  night, 

Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 

His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me; 

Each  of  us  warmed  the  other; 
Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 

That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 

And  when  the  falling  forest 

No  longer  crashed  in  warning, 
Each  of  us  went  from  our  hiding-place 

Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 

Darling,  kiss  me  payment! 

Hark,  how  the  wind  is  roaring; 
Father's  house  is  a  better  place 

When  the  stormy  rain  is  pouring! 

Bayard  Taylor 


THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LIONS 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a  royal  sport, 
And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on  the  court. 
The  nobles  filled  the   benches,  with   the  ladies  in  their 

pride, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with  one  for 

whom  he  sighed: 

And  truly  'twas  a  gallant  thing  to  see  that  crowning  show, 
Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the  royal  beasts 

below. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  325 

Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laughing  jaws; 
They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a  wind  went 

with  their  paws; 
With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar  they  rolled  on  one 

another, 
Till  all  the  pit  with  sand  and  mane  was  in  a  thunderous 

smother; 
The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came  whisking  through 

the  air; 
Said  Francis  then,  "  Faith,  gentlemen,  we're  better  here 

than  there." 

De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  king,  a  beauteous  lively 

dame, 
With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright  eyes,  which  always 

seemed  the  same; 
She  thought,  "The  Count,  my  lover,  is  brave  as  brave  can 

.be; 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show/ his  love  of 

me; 

King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on;  the  occasion  is  divine; 
I'll  drop  my  glove,  to  prove  his  love;  great  glory  will  be 


She  dropped  her  glove,  to  prove  his  love,  then  looked  at 

him  and  smiled; 

He  bowed,  and  in  a  moment  leaped  among  the  lions  wild; 
The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick,  he  has  regained  his 

place, 
Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with- love,  right  in  the  lady's 

face. 
"By  heaven,"  said  Francis,  "rightly  done!"  and  he  rose 

from  where  he  sat; 
"No  love,"  quoth  he,  "but  vanity,  sets  love  a  task  like 

that." 

Leigh  Hunt 


326  STORIES  IN  RHYME 


YOUNG  LOCHINVAR 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  hest; 
And,  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late; 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all. 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word), 

"O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 

"I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide, — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure!"  said  young  Lochinvar. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  327 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "'Twere  better  by  far, 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood 

near: 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 
"She  is  won!  we  are  gone!  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Loch- 
invar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran: 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

Walter  Scott 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW 

[SEPTEMBER  26,  1857] 

Pipes  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills! 
Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 

Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain! 


328  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear; — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept; 
Round  and  round,  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers, — 

Pray  to-day!"  the  soldier  said; 
"To-morrow,  death's  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread." 

Oh,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground: 
"Dinna  ye  hear  it? — dinna  ye  hear  it? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound!" 


Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true;— 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  329 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call: 
"Hark!  hear  ye  no'  MacGregor's, 

The  grandest  o'  them  all!" 

Oh,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's; 
"God  be  praised! — the  march  of  Havelock! 

The  piping  of  the  clans!" 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-ofF  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew! 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played ! 

John  GreenleaJ  Whittier 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be; 
Her  sails  from  heaven' received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  holy  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  Bell; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  Sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  around, 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  331 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green; 
Sir  Ralph,  the  Rover,  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess; 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float; 
Quoth  he, "My  men,  put  out  the  boat; 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 
And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 
And  cut  the  Bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sank  the  Bell  with  a  gurgling  sound; 

The  bubbles  rose,  and  burst  around. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "The  next  who  comes  to  the  Rock 

Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph,  the  Rover,  sailed  away, 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store, 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  Sun  on  high; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 


332  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph, "It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  Moon." 

"Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers  roar? 
For  yonder,  methinks,  should  be  the  shore." 
"Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound;  the  swell  is  strong; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock, — 
"O  Christ!  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock! " 

Sir  Ralph,  the  Rover,  tore  his  hair; 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair. 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But,  even  in  his  dying  fear, 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, — 
A  sound  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  Southey 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound, 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?" 

"O,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  Isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  333 

"And  fast  before  her  father's  men 

Three  days  we've  fled  together, 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 

My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Outspoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

"I'll  go,  my  chief, — I'm  ready: — 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright; 

But  for  your  winsome  lady: 

"And  by  my  word!  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry: 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 

The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  w7ind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, — 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"O,  haste  thee,  haste!"  the  lady  cries, 
"Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 
A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 


334  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

When,  O,  too  strong  for  human  hand, 
The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing: 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore, — 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover: 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back!  come  back!"  he  cried  in  grief, 

"Across  this  stormy  water: 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter! — O  my  daughter!" 

'Twas  vain; — the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing; — 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Thomas  Campbell 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 

[DECEMBER  17,  1839] 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  335 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
"I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see!" 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 
Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 


336  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

"Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast!" — - 
And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea!" 

"O  father!  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be? " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  337 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling,  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 

With  the  masts,  went  by  the  board; 
Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 

Ho!  ho!  the  breakers  roared! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


"WE  ARE  SEVEN" 

A  simple  Child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  Girl: 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said: 


338  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad: 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair; 

— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 
How  many  may  you  be?" 

"How  many?    Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?    I  pray  you  tell. 

She  answered,  "Seven  are  we; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea; 

"Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother; 

And,  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother.** 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven! — I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  Maid  reply, 
"Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we; 

Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie 
Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  my  little  Maid; 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive; 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  339 

"Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  Maid  replied: 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 

And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"And  often  after  sunset,  Sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 

"If  they  two  are  in  heaven?" 
Quick  was  the  little  Maid's  reply, 

"O  Master!  we  are  seven." 

"But  they  are  dead;  those  two  are  dead! 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven!" 


340  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

'Twas  throwing  words  away;  for  still 

The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven!" 

William  Wordsworth 


LUCY  GRAY 

OR    SOLITUDE 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray: 
And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 

I  chanced  to  see,  at  break  of  day, 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 

Beside  a  human  door! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 

The  hare  upon  the  green; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 

Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night, — 

You  to  the  town  must  go; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 

Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"That,  Father,  will  I  gladly  do: 

'Tis  scarcely  afternoon, — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 

And  yonder  is  the  moon!" 

At  this  the  Father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  fagot-brand. 

He  plied  his  work; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  341 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe: 

With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 

That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time: 

She  wandered  up  and  down: 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb: 

But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 

Went  shouting  far  and  wide; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 

To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  daybreak  on  the  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept, — and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 

"In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet;" 
When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 

The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 

They  tracked  the  footmarks  small: 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn-hedge, 

And  by  the  low  stone-wall; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed— 

The  marks  were  still  the  same — 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 


342  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Into  the  middle  of  the  plank; 
And  further  there  were  none! 

—Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 

She  is  a  living  child; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 

And  never  looks  behind; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

William  Wordsworth 


ALICE  FELL 

OR    POVERTY 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career, 

For  threatening  clouds  the  moon  had  drowned; 

When,  as  we  hurried  on,  my  ear 
Was  smitten  with  a  startling  sound. 

As  if  the  wind  blew  many  ways, 

I  heard  the  sound, — and  more  and  more; 

It  seemed  to  follow  with  the  chaise, 
And  still  I  heard  it  as  before. 

At  length  I  to  the  boy  called  out; 

He  stopped  his  horses  at  the  word, 
But  neither  cry,  nor  voice,  nor  shout, 

Nor  aught  else  like  it,  could  be  heard. 

The  boy  then  smacked  his  whip,  and  fast 
The  horses  scampered  through  the  rain 

But,  hearing  soon  upon  the  blast 
The  cry,  I  bade  him  halt  again. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  343 

Forthwith  alighting  on  the  ground, 

"Whence  comes,"  said  I,  "this  piteous  moan?" 
And  there  a  little  Girl  I  found, 

Sitting  behind  the  chaise,  alone. 

"My  cloak!"  no  other  word  she  spake, 

But  loud  and  bitterly  she  wept, 
As  if  her  innocent  heart  would  break: 

And  down  from  off  her  seat  she  leapt. 

"What  ails  you,  child?"    She  sobbed,  "Look  here!" 

I  saw  it  in  the  wheel  entangled, 
A  weather-beaten  rag  as  e'er 

From  any  garden  scarecrow  dangled. 

There,  twisted  between  nave  and  spoke, 

It  hung,  nor  could  at  once  be  freed; 
But  our  joint  pains  unloosed  the  cloak, 

A  miserable  rag  indeed! 

"And  whither  are  you  going,  child, 

To-night  along  these  lonesome  ways?" 
"To  Durham,"  answered  she,  half  wild — 

"Then  come  with  me  into  the  chaise." 

Insensible  to  all  relief, 

Sat  the  poor  girl,  and  forth  did  send 
Sob  after  sob,  as  if  her  grief 

Could  never,  never  have  an  end. 

"My  child,  in  Durham  do  you  dwell?" 

She  checked  herself  in  her  distress, 
And  said,  "My  name  is  Alice  Fell; 

I'm  fatherless  and  motherless. 

"And  I  to  Durham,  Sir,  belong." 

Again,  as  if  the  thought  would  choke 


344  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Her  very  heart,  her  grief  grew  strong; 
And  all  was  for  her  tattered  cloak! 


The  chaise  drove  on;  our  journey's  end 
Was  nigh;  and,  sitting  by  my  side, 

As  if  she  had  lost  her  only  friend, 
She  wept,  nor  would  be  pacified. 

Up  to  the  tavern-door  we  post; 

Of  Alice  and  her  grief  I  told, 
And  I  gave  money  to  the  host, 

To  buy  a  new  cloak  for  the  old. 

"And  let  it  be  of  duffil  gray, 

As  warm  a  cloak  as  man  can  sell!" 

Proud  creature  was  she  the  next  day, 
The  little  orphan,  Alice  Fell! 

William  Wordsworth 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR 

"Speak!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  dressed, 

Comest  to  daunt  me! 
Wrapped  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?" 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December; 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  345 

And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"I  was  a  Viking  old! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew. 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 
With  the  marauders. 


346  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Wild  was  the  life  we  led; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 
By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  1  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid. 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall. 
Loud  san<z;  the  minstrels  all, 
Chanting  his  glory; 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  347 

When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded? 

"Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us; 


348  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
'Death!'  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'Death  without  quarter!' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water! 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, — 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 
She  was  a  mother; 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  349 

Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another! 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful! 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!" 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 

Henry  Wadswnrth  Longfellow 


THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear. 

These  words,  which  I  shall  write; 
A  doleful  story  you  shall  hear, 

In  time  brought  forth  to  light. 
A  gentleman  of  good  account 

In  Norfolk  dwelt  of  late, 
Who  did  in  honor  far  surmount 

Most  men  of  his  estate. 


350  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Sore  sick  was  he,  and  like  to  die, 

No  help  his  life  could  save; 
His  wife  by  him  as  sick  did  lie, 

And  both  possessed  one  grave. 
No  love  between  these  two  was  lost, 

Each  was  to  other  kind; 
In  love  they  lived,  in  love  they  died, 

And  left  two  babes  behind : 

The  one  a  fine  and  pretty  boy, 

Not  passing  three  years  old; 
The  other  a  girl  more  young  than  he, 

And  framed  in  beauty's  mold. 
The  father  left  his  little  son, 

As  plainly  does  appear, 
When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come, 

Three  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane 

Five  hundred  pounds  in  gold, 
To  be  paid  down  on  marriage-day, 

Which  might  not  be  controlled: 
But  if  the  children  chance  to  die, 

Ere  they  to  age  should  come, 
Their  uncle  should  possess  their  wealth; 

For  so  the  will  did  run. 


"Now,  brother,"  said  the  dying  man, 

"Look  to  my  children  dear; 
Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl, 

No  friends  else  have  they  here: 
To  God  and  you  I  recommend 

My  children  dear  this  day; 
But  little  while  be  sure  we  have 

Within  this  world  to  stay. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  351 

"You  must  be  father  and  mother  both. 

And  uncle  all  in  one; 
God  knows  what  will  become  of  them, 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone." 
With  that  bespake  their  mother  dear, 

"O  brother  kind,"  quoth  she, 
"You  are  the  man  must  bring  our  babes 

To  wealth  or  misery. 

"And  if  you  keep  them  carefully 

Then  God  will  you  reward; 
But  if  you  otherwise  should  deal, 

God  will  your  deeds  regard." 
With  lips  as  cold  as  any  stone, 

They  kissed  their  children  small: 
"God  bless  you  both,  my  children  dear;" 

With  that  the  tears  did  fall. 

These  speeches  then  their  brother  spake 

To  this  sick  couple  there, 
"The  keeping  of  your  little  ones, 

Sweet  sister,  do  not  fear; 
God  never  prosper  me  nor  mine, 

Nor  aught  else  that  I  have, 
If  I  do  wrong  your  children  dear, 

When  you  are  laid  in  grave." 

The  parents  being  dead  and  gone, 

The  children  home  he  takes, 
And  brings  them  straight  into  his  house, 

Where  much  of  them  he  makes. 
He  had  not  kept  these  pretty  babes 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
But,  for  their  wealth,  he  did  devise 

To  make  them  both  away. 


352  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

He  bargained  with  two  ruffians  strong, 

Which  were  of  furious  mood, 
That  they  should  take  these  children  young, 

And  slay  them  in  a  wood. 
He  told  his  wife  an  artful  tale, 

He  would  the  children  send 
To  be  brought  up  in  fair  London, 

With  one  that  was  his  friend. 

Away  then  went  these  pretty  babes, 

Rejoicing  at  that  tide, 
Rejoicing  with  a  merry  mind, 

They  should  on  cock-horse  ride. 
They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly, 

As  they  rode  on  the  way, 
To  those  that  should  their  butchers  be, 

And  work  their  lives  decay: 

So  that  the  pretty  speech  they  had, 

Made  Murder's  heart  relent; 
And  they  that  undertook  the  deed, 

Full  sore  did  now  repent. 
Yet  one  of  them  more  hard  of  heart, 

Did  vow  to  do  his  charge, 
Because  the  wretch  that  hired  him, 

Had  paid  him  very  large. 

The  other  won't  agree  thereto, 

So  here  they  fall  to  strife; 
With  one  another  they  did  fight, 

About  the  children's  life: 
And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood, 

Did  slay  the  other  there, 
Within  an  unfrequented  wood; 

The  babes  did  quake  for  fear! 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  353 

He  took  the  children  by  the  hand, 

Tears  standing  in  their  eye, 
And  bade  them  straightway  follow  him, 

And  look  they  did  not  cry: 
And  two  long  miles  he  led  them  on, 

While  they  for  food  complain: 
"Stay  here,"  quoth  he,  "Til  bring  you  bread, 

When  I  come  back  again." 

These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand, 

Went  wandering  up  and  down, 
But  never  more  could  see  the  man 

Approaching  from  the  town; 
Their  pretty  lips  with  black-berries 

Were  all  besmeared  and  dyed, 
And,  when  they  saw  the  darksome  night, 

They  sat  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wandered  these  poor  innocents, 

Till  death  did  end  their  grief; 
In  one  another's  arms  they  died, 

As  wanting  due  relief: 
No  burial  this  pretty  pair 

Of  any  man  receives, 
Till  Robin-red-breast  piously 

Did  cover  them  with  leaves. 

And  now  the  heavy  wrath  of  God 

Upon  their  uncle  fell; 
Yea,  fearful  fiends  did  haunt  his  house, 

His  conscience  felt  an  hell: 
His  barns  were  fired,  his  goods  consumed, 

His  lands  were  barren  made, 
His  cattle  died  within  the  field, 

And  nothing  with  him  stayed. 


354  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

And  in  a  voyage  to  Portugal 

Two  of  his  sons  did  die; 
And,  to  conclude,  himself  was  brought 

To  want  and  misery: 
He  pawned  and  mortgaged  all  his  land 

Ere  seven  years  came  about, 
And  now  at  length  his  wicked  act 

Did  by  this  means  come  out: 

The  fellow,  that  did  take  in  hand 

These  children  for  to  kill, 
Was  for  a  robbery  judged  to  die, 

Such  was  God's  blessed  will: 
Who  did  confess  the  very  truth 

As  here  hath  been  displayed: 
Their  uncle  having  died  in  jail, 

Where  he  for  debt  was  laid. 

You  that  executors  be  made, 

And  overseers  eke 
Of  children  that  be  fatherless, 

And  infants  mild  and  meek; 
Take  you  example  by  this  thing, 

And  yield  to  each  his  right, 
Lest  God  with  such  like  misery 

Your  wicked  minds  requite. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A-DALL 

Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 
All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear, 

And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bold  outlaw 
That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  Robin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood, 
All  under  the  greenwood  tree, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  355 

There  was  he  aware  of  a  brave  young  man, 
As  fine  as  fine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay; 
And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chanted  a  roundelay. 

As  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 
There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 

It  was  clean  cast  away; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a  sigh, 

"Alack!  and  well-a-dayi" 

Then  stepped  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  Midge,  the  miller's  son; 
Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow 

When  as  he  see  them  come. 

"Stand  off!  stand  off!"  the  young  man  said, 

"What  is  your  will  with  me?" 
"You  must  come  before  our  master  straight, 

Under  yon  greenwood  tree." 

And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 

Robin  asked  him  courteously, 
"O,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare, 
For  my  merry  men  and  me?" 

"I  have  no  money,"  the  young  man  said, 

"But  five  shillings  and  a  ring; 
And  that  I  have  kept  these  seven  long  years, 
To  have  at  my  wedding. 


356  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

"Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 

But  she  was  from  me  ta'en, 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight, 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain." 

"What  is  thy  name?"  then  said  Robin  Hood, 

"Come  tell  me,  without  any  fail." 
"By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young  man, 

"My  name  it  is  Allen-a-Dale." 

"What  wilt  thou  give  me,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"In  ready  gold  or  fee, 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true-love  again, 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee?" 

"I  have  no  money,"  then  quoth  the  young  man, 

"No  ready  gold  nor  fee, 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  be." 

"How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true-love? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile." 
"By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young  man, 

"It  is  but  five  little  mile." 

Then  Robin  he  hasted  over  the  plain; 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  ling, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  Allen  should  keep  his  wedding. 

"What  dost  thou  here?"  the  bishop  he  said; 

"I  prithee  now  tell  unto  me." 
"I  am  a  bold  harper,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"And  the  best  in  the  north  country." 

"Oh  welcome,  oh  welcome,"  the  bishop  he  said; 
"That  music  best  plcaseth  me." 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  357 

"You  shall  have  no  music,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"Till  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  I  see." 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 

Which  was  both  grave  and  old; 
And  after  him  a  finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  glistering  gold. 

"This  is  no  fit  match,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"That  you  do  seem  to  make  here; 
For  since  we  are  come  unto  the  church, 

The  bride  shall  choose  her  own  dear." 

Then  Robin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  or  three; 
When  four-and-twenty  yeomen  bold 

Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 

And  when  they  came  into  the  church-yard, 

Marching  all  in  a  row, 
The  first  man  was  Allen-a-Dale, 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

"This  is  thy  true  love,"  Robin  he  said, 

"Young  Allen,  as  I  hear  say: 
And  you  shall  be  married  at  this  same  time, 

Before  we  depart  away." 

"That  shall  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  cried, 

"For  thy  word  it  shall  not  stand; 
They  shall  be  three  times  asked  in  the  church, 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 

Robin  Hood  pulled  off  the  bishop's  coat, 

And  put  it  upon  Little  John; 
"By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  Robin  said, 

"This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a  man." 


358  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  choir, 

The  people  began  to  laugh; 
He  asked  them  seven  times  in  the  church, 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

"Who  gives  me  this  maid?"  then  said  Little  John. 

Quoth  Robin  Hood,  "That  do  I; 
And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allen-a-Dale, 

Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy." 

And  then  having  ended  this  merry  wedding, 
The  bride  looked  as  fresh  as  a  queen; 

And  so  they  returned  to  the  merry  greenwood, 
Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 


GOD'S  JUDGMENT  ON  A  WICKED  BISHOP 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet, 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet; 
'Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see,  all  around, 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door; 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last-year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnished  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day 

To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay; 

He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 

And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  there. 

Rejoiced  such  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folk  flocked  from  far  and  near; 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and  old. 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  359 

Then,  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door; 
And,  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn,  and  burnt  them  all. 

"I*  faith,  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire!"  quoth  he; 
"And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me 
For  ridding  it,  in  these  times  forlorn, 
Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sat  down  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man; 

But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  entered  the  hall, 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  looked,  there  came  a  man  from  his  farm, — 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm: 
"My  Lord,  I  opened  your  granaries  this  morn, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 
And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be. 
"Fly!  my  Lord  Bishop,  fly!"  quoth  he, 
"Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  way,  - 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday!" 

"I'll  go  to  my  tower  in  the  Rhine,"  replied  he; 
"Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany, — 
The  walls  are  high,  and  the  shores  are  steep, 
And  the  tide  is  strong,  and  the  water  deep." 


360 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away, 
And  he  crossed  the  Rhine  without  delay, 
And  reached  his  tower,  and  barred  with  care 
All  the  windows,  and  doors,  arid  loop-holes  there. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes, 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise; 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 

On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  screaming  came. 

He  listened  and  looked, — it  was  only  the  cat; 
But  the  Bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for  that, 
For  she  sat  screaming,  mad  with  fear, 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  were  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so  deep, 
And  they  have  climbed  the  shores  so  steep, 
And  now  by  thousands  up  they  crawl 
To  the  holes  and  the  windows  in  the  wall. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  Bishop  fell, 
And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 
As,  louder  and  louder,  drawing  near, 
The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls  helter-skelter  they  pour; 
And  down  from  the  ceiling  and  up  through  the  floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and  before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below, — 
And  all  at  once  to  the  Bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones; 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him! 

Robert  Southcy 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  361 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick, 
By  famous  Hanover  city; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 

Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side; 

A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 
But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin  was  a  pity. 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cooks'  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats 

By  drowning  their  speaking 

With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 
"'Tis  clear,"  cried  they,  "our  Mayor's  a  noddy; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation, — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin! 
You  hope,  because  you're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease? 
Rouse  up,  sirs!  Give  your  brains  a  racking, 
To  find  the  remedy  we're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we'll  send  you  packing!" 


362  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sat  in  council, — 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence: 
"For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown  sell; 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain, — 
I'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oh  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap!" 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber-door  but  a  gentle  tap? 
"Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "what's  that?" 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle  green  and  glutinous) 
"Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat!" 

"Come  in!"  the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger: 
And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure! 
His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 
.     Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red, 
And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 
With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 
And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 
No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin, 
But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in; 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin: 
And  nobody  could  enough  admire 
The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 
Quoth  one:  "It's  as  my  great-grandsire, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  363 

Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom's  tone, 

Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted  tombstone!" 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table: 

And,  "Please  your  honors,"  said  he,  "I'm  able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw! 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

On  creatures  that  do  people  harm, 

The  mole  and  toad  and  newt  and  viper; 

And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 

(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 

A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 

To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  self-same  check, 

And  at  the  scarfs  end  hung  a  pipe; 

And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever  straying 

As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 

Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 

Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

"Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarms  of  gnats; 

I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats; 

And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders, — 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats, 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders?" 

"One?  fifty  thousand!"  was  the  exclamation 

Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stepped, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while; 


364 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 

To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 

And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 

Like  a  candle-flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled; 

And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered, 

You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered; 

And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling; 

And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling; 

And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 

Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 

Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 

Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers; 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives, — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished! 
— Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he,  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 
Which  was:  "At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe, — 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  'Oh  rats,  rejoice! 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  365 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon!' 
And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 
All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it  said,  'Come,  bore  me!'- 
I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 

Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple. 

"Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles! 

Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes! 

Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 

Of  the  rats!" — when  suddenly,  up  the  face 

Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 

With  a  "First,  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders!" 

A  thousand  guilders!    The  Mayor  looked  blue; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council-dinners  made  rare  havoc 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow! 

"  Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  knowing  wink, 

"Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke; 

But  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 


366  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty; 
A  thousand  guilders!  Come,  take  fifty!" 

The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

"No  trifling!  I  can't  wait,  beside! 

I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 

Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  Head  Cook's  pottage,  all  he's  rich  in, 

For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen, 

Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor: 

With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver; 

With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver! 

And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 

May  find  me  pipe  after  another  fashion." 

"How?"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'ye  think  I  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  Cook? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow?    Do  your  worst, 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst!" 

Once  more  he  stepped  into  the  street; 

And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane; 
And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 
Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues  chattering; 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when  barley  is  scattering, 
Out  came  the  children  running: 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  367 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, — 

Could  only  follow  with  the  eye 

That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 

As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters! 

However,  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top! 

He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop!" 

When,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain-side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed; 

And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed; 

And  when  all  were  in,  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 

Did  I  say,  all?    No!    One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 

His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, — 

"It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left! 

I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 

Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me; 


368  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gushed,  and  fruit-trees  grew, 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings; 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 

My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  hill, 

Left  alone  against  my  will, 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more!" 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says  that  heaven's  gate 

Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in! 
The  Mayor  sent  East,  West,  North  and  South 
To  offer  the  Piper,  by  word  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  'twas  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  forever. 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 
"And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  Twenty-second  of  July, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  369 

Thirteen  hundred  and  seventy-six:" 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  retreat, 
They  called  it,  the  Pied  Piper's  Street— 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
Nor  suffered  they  hostlery  or  tavern 

To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  great  church-window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away, 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  who  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress, 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago  in  a  mighty  band 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land, 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  understand. 

So,  Willy,  let  me  and  you  be  wipers 

Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially  pipers! 

And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats  or  from  mice, 

If  we've  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep  our  promise! 

Robert  Browning 


370 


STORIES  IN  RHYME 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN  HE  INTENDED  AND 
CAME  SAFE  HOME  AGAIN 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
"Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three, 
Will  fill  the  chaise;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"I  am  a  linen-draper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "That's  well  said; 
And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  371 

We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 
Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find, 
That  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 

Were  never  folk  so  glad, 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again; 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came;  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore. 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 


372  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  downstairs, 

"The  wine  is  left  behind!" 

"Good  lack!"  quoth  he — "yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword, 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul!) 
Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 


Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  "Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 
But  John  he  cried  in  vain; 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  373 

That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 
In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands. 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  naught; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig: 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "Well  done!" 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around; 
"He  carries  weight!"    "He  rides  a  race!" 

"'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound!" 


374  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

JTwas  wonderful  to  view, 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay; 

And  there  he  threw  the  Wash  about 

f>n  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 
Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin! — Here's  the  house!3 
They  all  at  once  did  cry; 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  375 

"The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired;" — 
Said  Gilpin— "So-am  I." 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there! 
For  why? — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware, 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him: 

"What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall— 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all?" 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit 

And  loved  a  timely  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke: 

"I  came  because  your  horse  would  come, 

And,  if  I  well  forebode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here. — 

They  are  upon  the  road." 


)RIES  IN  RHYM1 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word 

But  to  the  house  went  in; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig; 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit, 
"My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,"  It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"I  am  in  haste  to  dine; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 
Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 


STORIES  IN  RHYME  377 

And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might 
As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first; 

For  why  ? — they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half-a-crown; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well/* 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain: 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels, 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry: 


378  STORIES  IN  RHYME 

"Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a  highwayman!'3 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space; 
The  toll-men  thinking,  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  the  king! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he! 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad 

May  I  be  there  to  see! 

William  Cowper 


jx.  My  Coanfry 


"BREATHES  THERE  A  MAN" 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ? 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

Walter  Scott 


MY  COUNTRY 

AMERICA 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  Freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free, — 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  Freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  Thee  we  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  Freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 
Great  God,  our  King. 

Samuel  Francis  Smith 
381 


382  MY  COUNTRY 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 

O  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleam- 
ing? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  perilous 

fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  stream- 
ing! 

And  the  rockets'  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there: 
O  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream: 

'Tis  the  star-spangled  banner!    O  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 
That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollu- 
tion. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave: 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 

Oh!  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation! 


MY  COUNTRY  383 

Blest  with  victory    and  peace,  may   the   heaven-rescued 

land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a 

nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto:  "In  God  is  our  trust." 

And  the  star-spangled  hanner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 

Francis  Scott  Key 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

NShe  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there; 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 

Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand, 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning-lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun!  to  thee  'tis  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 


384  MY  COUNTRY 

And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

Flag  of  the  brave!  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on: 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
Where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance: 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas!  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 
By  angel  hands  to  valor  given; 


MY  COUNTRY  385 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 
And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 

Forever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 

With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 
And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us? 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake 


"OH  MOTHER  OF  A  MIGHTY  RACE" 

Oh  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red; 
Thy  step — the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet; 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Ay,  let  them  rail — those  haughty  ones, 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide; 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley-shades; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  g-!en; — 


386  MY  COUNTRY 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams. 

There's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  Earth's  down-trodden  and  oppressed, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread, 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

Oh,  fair  young  mother!  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  the  skies 
The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath 

are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift 

sword ; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 

camps; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps; 


MY  COUNTRY  387 

I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 
lamps; 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel: 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace 

shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his 

heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  re- 
treat; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment- 
seat: 

Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my  feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me: 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe 


CONCORD  HYMN 

SUNG    AT    THE    COMPLETION    OF    THE    BATTLE    MONUMENT, 
APRIL  19,  1836 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 
Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 


388  MY  COUNTRY 

And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


THE  FLAG  GOES  BY 

Hats  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 

A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums, 

A  flash  of  color  beneath  the  sky: 

Hats  off! 

The  flag  is  passing  by! 

Blue  and  crimson  and  white  it  shines, 

Over  the  steel-tipped,  ordered  lines. 

Hats  off! 

The  colors  before  us  fly; 

But  more  than  the  flag  is  passing  by: 

Sea-fights  and  land-fights,  grim  and  great, 
Fought  to  make  and  to  save  the  State: 
Weary  marches  and  sinking  ships; 
Cheers  of  victory  on  dying  lips; 

Days  of  plenty  and  years  of  peace; 
March  of  a  strong  land's  swift  increase; 


MY  COUNTRY  389 

Equal  justice,  right  and  law, 
Stately  honor  and  reverend  awe; 

Sign  of  a  nation,  great  and  strong. 
To  ward  her  people  from  foreign  wrong: 
Pride  and  glory  and  honor, — all 
Live  in  the  colors  to  stand  or  fall. 

Hats  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 

A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums; 

And  loyal  hearts  are  beating  high: 

Hats  off! 

The  flag  is  passing  by! 

Henry  Holcomb  Bennett 


"YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND" 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas! 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe; 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow! 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave!— 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 


390  MY  COUNTRY 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow! 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below, 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow! 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow! 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell 


"ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND" 

What  have  I  done  for  you, 

England,  my  England? 
What  is  there  I  would  not  do, 

England,  my  own  ? 
With  your  glorious  eyes  austere, 


MY  COUNTRY  391 

As  the  Lord  were  walking  near, 

Whispering  terrible  things  and  dear 
As  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 

England- 
Round  the  world  on  your  bugles  blown! 

Where  shall  the  watchful  sun, 

England,  my  England, 
Match  the  master-work  you've  done, 

England,  my  own? 
When  shall  he  rejoice  agen 
Such  a  breed  of  mighty  men 
As  come  forward,  one  to  ten, 

To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Down  the  years  on  your  bugles  blown? 

Ever  the  faith  endures, 

England,  my  England: — 
"Take  and  break  us:  we  are  yours, 

England,  my  own! 
Life  is  good,  and  joy  runs  high 
Between  English  earth  and  sky: 
Death  is  death;  but  we  shall  die 

To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

To  the  stars  on  your  bugles  blown!  ' 

They  call  you  proud  and  hard, 

England,  my  England: 
You  with  worlds  to  watch  and  ward, 

England,  my  own! 

You  whose  mailed  hand  keeps  the  keys 
Of  such  teeming  destinies, 
You  could  know  nor  dread  nor  ease 


392  MY  COUNTRY 

Were  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 

England, 
Round  the  Pit  on  your  bugles  blown! 

Mother  of  Ships  whose  might, 

England,  my  England, 
Is  the  fierce  old  Sea's  delight, 

England,  my  own, 
Chosen  daughter  of  the  Lord, 
Spouse-in-Chief  of  the  ancient  Sword, 
There's  the  menace  of  the  Word 

In  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Out  of  heaven  on  your  bugles  blown! 

William  Ernest  Henley 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOW 

What  of  the  bow? 

The  bow  was  made  in  England: 
Of  true  wood,  of  yew-wood, 
The  wood  of  English  bows; 
So  men  who  are  free 
Love  the  old  yew-tree 
And  the  land  where  the  yew-tree  grows. 

What  of  the  cord  ? 

The  cord  was  made  in  England: 
A.  rough  cord,  a  tough  cord, 
A  cord  that  bowmen  love; 
And  so  we  will  sing 
Of  the  hempen  string 
And  the  land  where  the  cord  was  wove. 

What  of  the  shaft? 

The  shaft  was  cut  in  England: 


MY  COUNTRY  393 

A  long  shaft,  a  strong  shaft, 
Barbed  and  trim  and  true; 
So  we'll  drink  all  together 
To  the  gray  goose-feather 
And  the  land  where  the  gray  goose  flew. 

What  of  the  mark? 

Ah,  seek  it  not  in  England: 
A  bold  mark,  our  old  mark, 
Is  waiting  over-sea. 

When  the  strings  harp  in  chorus, 
And  the  lion  flag  is  o'er  us, 
It  is  there  that  our  mark  will  be. 

What  of  the  men  ? 

The  men  were  bred  in  England: 
The  bowmen — the  yeomen, 
The  lads  of  dale  and  fell. 
Here's  to  you — and  to  you! 
To  the  hearts  that  are  true 
And  the  land  where  the  true  hearts  dwell. 

Arthur  Conan  Doyle 


AGINCOURT 

[OCTOBER  25,  1415] 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 


394  MY  COUNTRY 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

Unto  him  sending; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then, 
"Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed: 
Yet  have  we  well  begun: 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

"And  for  myself  (quoth  he) 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me 

Nor  more  esteem  nu  : 
Victor  I  will  remain 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 


MY  COUNTRY  395 

"  Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 
Under  our  swords  they  fell: 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vanguard  led; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped 

Among  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there; 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone, 
Armor  on  armor  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake: 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces! 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses. 


396  MY  COUNTRY 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts 

Stuck  close  together.  i 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbos  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went — 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 


Gloster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 


MY  COUNTRY  397 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made 

Still  as  they  ran  up; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 

Michael  Drayton 


DRAKE'S  DRUM 

[SiR  FRANCIS  DRAKE, 


Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a-dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
.An'  the  shore-lights  flashing  an'  the  night-tide  dashin', 

He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

Drake  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an'  ruled  the  Devon  seas, 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 

Rovin'  though  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi'  heart  at  ease, 
An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 

"Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 


398 


MY  COUNTRY 


Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnirT  low; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 
An'  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed  them 
long  ago." 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas  come, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe; 
Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old  flag  flyin', 

They  shall  find  him  ware  an'  wakin',  as  they  found  hii 
long  ago! 

Henry  Newlolt 

IVRY 

[MARCH  14,  1590] 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  ai 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of  Navan 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  danc< 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  oh  pleasai 

land  of  France! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  tl 

waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daugl 

ters. 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy; 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  wall 

annoy. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  ol 

war. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Oh !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  da; 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array; 


MY  COUNTRY  399 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish 
spears. 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our 
land; 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his 
hand; 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  em- 
purpled flood, 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 

To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  dressed; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 

crest. 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and 

high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to 

wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout:  "God  save  our  Lord 

the  King!" 

"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may, 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks 

of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah!  the  foes  are  moving.    Hark  to  the  mingled  din, 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  cul- 

verin. 

The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies, — upon  them  with  the  lance! 


400 


MY 


thousand 

rest, 
thousand 


COUNTRY 

striking  deep,  a  thousand 

knights  are  pressing  close  behind 


spurs  are 


speai 


the 


snow- 


white  crest 


And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding 

star, 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours.     Mayenne  hath 

turned  his  rein; 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter;  the  Flemish  count  is 

slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay 

gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and 

cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our  van, 
"  Remember  Saint  Bartholomew!"  was  passed  from  man  to 

man. 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "No  Frenchman  is  my  foe: 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren 

go." 

Oh!  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre  ? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for  France 
to-day; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 

But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight; 

And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white. 

Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 

The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false  Lor- 
raine. 

Up  with  it  high;  unfurl  it  wide;  that  all  the  host  may  know 

How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought 
His  Church  such  woe. 


MY  COUNTRY  401 

Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest 

point  of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho!  maidens  of  Vienna;  ho!  matrons  of  Lucerne; 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall 
return. 

Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spear- 
men's souls. 

Ho!  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be 
bright; 

Ho!  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to- 
night; 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised 
the  slave, 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the 
brave. 

Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are; 

And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 


WARREN'S  ADDRESS  AT  BUNKER  HILL 

[JUNE    I6-I7,    1775] 

Stand!  the  ground's  your  own,  my  brav.es! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel! 

Ask  it, — ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 


MY  COUNTRY 

Look  behind  you! — they're  afire  I 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it!    From  the  vale 
On  they  come — and  will  ye  quail? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust! 
Die  we  may, — and  die  we  must: 
But,  O,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell? 

John  Pierpont 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 

[1780-1781] 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 
That  little  dread  us  near! 


MY  COUNTRY  403 

On  them  shall  light  at  midnight     - 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil; 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

We  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain; 
Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away, 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 


404  MY  COUNTRY 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore. 

William  Cullen  Bryai 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE  AFTER 
CORUNNA 

QANUARY  16,  1809] 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 
And  the  lanthorn  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 


MY  COUNTRY  405 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 

[APRIL  23,  1809] 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


406  MY  COUNTRY 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"- 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through), 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 
• 
"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!"    The  chiefs  eye  flashed;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chiefs  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened. itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes; 
"You're  wounded!"    "Nay,"  the  soldier  s  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said: 
"I'm  killed,  Sire!"    And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning 


MY  COUNTRY  407 

OLD  IRONSIDES 

[SEPTEMBER  14,  1830] 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar; — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee; — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


408 


MY  COUNTRY 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE 

[BALACLAVA,  OCTOBER  25,  1852] 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 


MY  COUNTRY  409 

Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 

Alfred  Tennyson 

THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS 

[CHINA,  1857] 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  quaffed,  and  swore; 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buff's, 

Who  never  looked  before. 


410  MY  COUNTRY 

To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb, 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame, 
He  only  knows  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seemed, 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleamed, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow; 
The  smoke  above  his  father's  door 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung; 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doomed  by  himself,  so  young? 

Yes,  honor  calls! — with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by; 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel, 

An  English  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain,  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed, 
Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns, 

Unless  proud  England  keep,  untamed, 
The  strong  heart  of  her  sons; 


MY  COUNTRY  411 

So  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring, — 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 

Francis  Hastings  Doyle 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 

[MAY  31,  1862] 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey, — 
That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield! 
'Twas  the   day  when  with  Jameson,   fierce   Berry,   and 

Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose  high- 
est, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak  and 

pine, 

Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest, — 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 

Near  the  dark  Seven   Pines,  where  we  still   held  our 

ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder, — 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign; 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the  louder, 

"There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole  line ! " 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed!     How  we  saw  his  blade 
brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left, — and  the  reins  in  his  teeth! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 


412 


MY  COUNTRY 


Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in, — through  the  clearing  or  pine? 

"Oh,  anywhere!  Forward!  'Tis  all  the  same,  Colonel: 
You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line!" 

Oh,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still, — in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drummer's 

sign,— 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  "Forward!"  along  the  whole  line. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 


FARRAGUT 

[MOBILE  BAY,  AUGUST  5,  1864] 

Farragut,  Farragut, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke, 
Watches  the  hoary  mist 

Lift  from  the  bay, 
Till  his  flag,  glory-kissed, 

Greets  the  young  day. 

Far,  by  gray  Morgan's  walls, 

Looms  the  black  fleet. 
Hark,  deck  to  rampart  calls 

With  the  drums'  beat! 
Buoy  your  chains  overboard, 

While  the  steam  hums; 
Men!  to  the  battlement, 

Farragut  comes. 


MY  COUNTRY  413 

See,  as  the  hurricane 

Hurtles  in  wrath 
Squadrons  of  clouds  amain 

Back  from  its  path! 
Back  to  the  parapet, 

To  the  guns'  lips, 
Thunderbolt  Farragut 

Hurls  the  black  ships. 

Now  through  the  battle's  roar 

Clear  the  boy  sings, 
"  By  the  mark  fathoms  four," 

While  his  lead  swings. 
Steady  the  wheelmen  five 

"Nor'  by  East  keep  her," 
"Steady,"  but  two  alive: 

How  the  shells  sweep  her! 

Lashed  to  the  mast  that  sways 

Over  red  decks, 
Over  the  flame  that  plays 

Round  the  torn  wrecks, 
Over  the  dying  lips 

Framed  for  a  cheer, 
Farragut  leads  his  ships, 

Guides  the  line  clear. 

On  by  heights  cannon-browed, 

While  the  spars  quiver; 
Onward  still  flames  the  cloud 

Where  the  hulks  shiver. 
See,  yon  fort's  star  is  set, 

Storm  and  fire  past. 
Cheer  him,  lads — Farragut,, 

Lashed  to  the  mast! 


414 


MY  COUNTRY 

Oh!  while  Atlantic's  breast 

Bears  a  white  sail, 
While  the  Gulf's  towering  crest 

Tops  a  green  vale, 
Men  thy  bold  deeds  shall  tell, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke! 

William  Tuckey  Meredith 


"OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE  HEIGHTS" 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet; 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights, 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gathered  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stepped  she  down  through  town  and  field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  revealed 

The  fullness  of  her  face — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 
Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 

And,  king-like,  wears  the  crown. 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.    May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears; 


MY  COUNTRY  415 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes! 

Alfred  Tennyson 


AN  ODE  IN  IMITATION  OF  ALOEUS 

What  constitutes  a  State? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned; 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 
Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No: — men,  high-minded  men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude, — 

Men  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain; 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain: — 

These  constitute  a  State; 
And  sovereign  Law,  that  State's  collected  will, 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 
The  fiend,  Dissension,  like  a  vapor  sinks; 

And  e'en  the  all-dazzling  Crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

William  Jones 


416 


MY  COUNTRY 


THE  SHIP  OF  STATE 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State! 

Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great! 

Humanity,  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope; 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 

Were  forged  the  anchors  of  thy  hope! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock — 

'Tis  of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock; 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale! 

In  spite  of  rock,  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


THE  FATHERLAND 

Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland? 

Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born? 

Doth  not  the  yearning  spirit  scorn 
In  such  scant  borders  to  be  spanned? 
Oh,  yes!  his  fatherland  must  be 
As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free! 


MY  COUNTRY  417 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 

Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man? 
Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 

For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this? 

Oh,  yes!  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free! 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 
Joy's  myrtle-wreath  or  sorrow's  gyves, 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 

After  a  life  more  true  and  fair, 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand, 

His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another, — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother, — 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine! 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand, 

His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland! 

James  Russell  Lowell 


RECESSIONAL 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line — 
Beneath  whose  awful  Hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine- 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 

The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart- 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 


418  MY  COUNTRY 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 

In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard- 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, — 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord!    AMEN. 

Rudyard  Kipling 


"HOW  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE" 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  ringers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there! 

Collins 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?    Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 

It  is  the  generous  spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought: 
Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright: 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  pain, 
And  fear,  and  bloodshed,  miserable  train! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives: 
By  objects  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate; 
Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 
As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 
421 


422 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 

He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows: 

Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 

Rises  by  open  means;  and  there  will  stand 

On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state; 

Whom  they  must  follow;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all: 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 

Is  happy  as  a  lover;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 

He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sens:: 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 

Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes; 

Sweet  images!  which,  whereso'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love. 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  423 

'Tis,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not— 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won: 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpassed: 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name — 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause. 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior;  this  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

William  Wordsworth 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT 

[1583] 
Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 

Sailed  the  corsair  Death; 
Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath, 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glisten  in  the  sun; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 


424  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 
Dripped  with  silver  rain; 

But  where  he  passed  there  was  cast 
Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas!  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas!  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night; 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand; 

"Do  not  fear!  Heaven  is  as  near," 
He  said,  "by  water  as  by  land!" 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 
Without  a  signal's  sound, 

Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 
They  drift  in  close  embrace, 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  425 

With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main; 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 

They  drift  through  dark  and  day; 
And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream, 

Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS 

[NOVEMBER  19,  1620] 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky, 

Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came: 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear,— 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free! 


426  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared; 

This  was  their  welcome  home! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim-band; 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 
There  was  manhood's  brow,  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war?— 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine! 

Aye,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod! 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found- 
Freedom  to  worship  God ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans 


CASABIANCA 

[BATTLE  OF  THE  NILE,  AUGUST,  1798] 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
Whence  all  but  him  had  fled; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 
As  born  to  rule  the  storm; 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  427 

A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on;  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  be  done!" 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"Speak,  father!"  once  again  he  cried, 

"If  I  may  yet  be  gone!" 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair; 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"My  father!  must  I  stay?" 
While  o'er  him,  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapped  the  ship  in  splendor  wild; 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound; 

The  boy, — oh!  where  was  he? 
Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea,— 


428  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part, — 

But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there, 
Was  that  young,  faithful  heart. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemam 


THE  LOST  COLORS 

[1843] 

Frowning,  the  mountain  stronghold  stood, 
Whose  front  no  mortal  could  assail; 
For  more  than  twice  three  hundred  years 
The  terror  of  the  Indian  vale. 
By  blood  and  fire  the  robber  band 
Answered  the  helpless  village  wail. 

Hot  was  his  heart  and  cool  his  thought, 
When  Napier  from  his  Englishmen 
Up  to  the  bandits'  rampart  glanced, 
And  down  upon  his  ranks  again. 
Summoned  to  dare  a  deed  like  that, 
Which  of  them  all  would  answer  then? 

What  sullen  regiment  is  this 
That  lifts  its  eyes  to  dread  Cutchee? 
Abased,  its  standard  bears  no  flag. 
For  thus  the  punishment  shall  be 
That  England  metes  to  Englishmen 
Who  shame  her  once  by  mutiny. 

From  out  the  disgraced  Sixty-Fourth 
There  stepped  a  hundred  men  of  might. 
Cried  Napier:  "Now  prove  to  me 
I  read  my  soldiers'  hearts  aright! 
Form!    Forward!    Charge,  my  volunteers! 
Your  colors  are  on  yonder  height!" 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  429 

So  sad  is  shame,  so  wise  is  trust! 
The  challenge  echoed  bugle-clear. 
Like  fire  along  the  Sixty-Fourth 
From  rank  to  file  rang  cheer  on  cheer. 
In  death  and  glory  up  the  pass 
They  fought  for  all  to  brave  men  dear. 

Old  is  the  tale,  but  read  anew 

In  every  warring  human  heart, 

What  rebel  hours,  what  coward  shame, 

Upon  the  aching  memory  start! 

To  find  the  ideal  forfeited, 

— What  tears  can  teach  the  holy  art? 

Thou  great  Commander!  leading  on 

Through  weakest  darkness  to  strong  light; 

By  any  anguish,  give  us  back 

Our  life's  young  standard,  pure  and  bright. 

O  fair,  lost  Colors  of  the  soul! 

For  your  sake  storm  we  any  height. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phtlps  Ward 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  BIRKENHEAD 

SUPPOSED   TO    BE   TOLD    BY   A    SOLDIER   WHO    SURVIVED 

[FEBRUARY  26,  1852] 

Right  on  our  flank  the  crimson  sun  went  down; 
The  deep  sea  rolled  around  in  dark  repose;  . 
When,  like  the  wild  shriek  from  some  captured  town, 
A  cry  of  women  rose. 

The  stout  ship  Birkenhead  lay  hard  and  fast, 
Caught  without  hope  upon  a  hidden  rock; 
Her  timbers  thrilled  as  nerves,  when  through  them  passed 
The  spirit  of  that  shock. 


430  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

And  ever  like  base  cowards,  who  leave  their  ranks 
In  danger's  hour,  before  the  rush  of  steel, 
Drifted  away  disorderly  the  planks 
From  underneath  her  keel. 

So  calm  the  air,  so  calm  and  still  the  flood, 
That  low  down  in  its  blue  translucent  glass 
We  saw  the  great  fierce  fish,  that  thirst  for  blood, 
Pass  slowly,  then  repass. 

They  tarried,  the  waves  tarried,  for  their  prey! 
The  sea  turned  one  clear  smile!    Like  things  asleep 
Those  dark  shapes  in  the  azure  silence  lay, 
As  quiet  as  the  deep. 

Then  amidst  oath,  and  prayer,  and  rush,  and  wreck, 
Faint  screams,  faint  questions  waiting  no  reply, 
Our  Colonel  gave  the  word,  and  on  the  deck 
Formed  us  in  line  to  die. 

To  die! — 'twas  hard,  whilst  the  sleek  ocean  glowed 
Beneath  a  sky  as  fair  as  summer  flowers: — 
All  to  the  boats!  cried  one: — he  was,  thank  God, 
No  officer  of  ours! 

Our  English  hearts  beat  true: — we  would  not  stir: 
That  base  appeal  we  heard,  but  heeded  not: 
On  land,  on  sea,  we  had  our  Colors,  sir, 
To  keep  without  a  spot! 

They  shall  not  say  in  England,  that  we  fought 
With  shameful  strength,  unhonored  life  to  seek; 
Into  mean  safety,  mean  deserters,  brought 
By  trampling  down  the  weak. 

So  we  made  women  with  their  children  go. 
The  oars  ply  back  again,  and  yet  again; 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  431 

Whilst,  inch  by  inch,  the  drowning  ship  sank  low, 
Still  under  steadfast  men. 

—What  follows,  why  recall  ? — The  brave  who  died, 
Died  without  flinching  in  the  bloody  surf, 
They  sleep  as  well  beneath  that  purple  tide, 
As  others  under  turf: — 

They  sleep  as  well!  and,  roused  from  their  wild  grave, 
Wearing  their  wounds  like  stars,  shall  rise  again, 
Joint-heirs  with  Christ,  because  they  bled  to  save 
His  weak  ones,  not  in  vain. 

Francis  Hastings  Doyle 


CRAVEN 

[MOBILE  BAY,  AUGUST  5,  1864] 

Over  the  turret,  shut  in  his  ironclad  tower, 

Craven  was  conning  his  ship  through  smoke  and  flame; 
Gun  to  gun  he  had  battered  the  fort  for  an  hour, 

Now  was  the  time  for  a  charge  to  end  the  game. 

There  lay  the  narrowing  channel,  smooth  and  grim, 
A  hundred  deaths  beneath  it,  and  never  a  sign: 

There  lay  the  enemy's  ships,  and  sink  or  swim 
The  flag  was  flying,  and  he  was  head  of  the  line. 

The  fleet  behind  was  jamming:  the  monitor  hung 
Beating  the  stream;  the  roar  for  a  moment  hushed; 

Craven  spoke  to  the  pilot;  slow  she  swung; 

Again  he  spoke,  and  right  for  the  foe  she  rushed 

Into  the  narrowing  channel,  between  the  shore 
And  the  sunk  torpedoes  lying  in  treacherous  rank; 

She  turned  but  a  yard  too  short;  a  muffled  roar, 

A  mountainous  wave,  and  she  rolled,  righted,  and  sank. 


432  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Over  the  manhole,  up  in  the  ironclad  tower, 
Pilot  and  captain  met  as  they  turned  to  fly: 

The  hundredth  part  of  a  moment  seemed  an  hour, 
For  one  could  pass  to  be  saved,  and  one  must  die. 

They  stood  like  men  in  a  dream;  Craven  spoke, — 
Spoke  as  he  lived  and  fought,  with  a  captain's  pride: 

"After  you,  Pilot."     The  pilot  woke, 

Down  the  ladder  he  went,  and  Craven  died. 

All  men  praise  the  deed  and  the  manner;  but  we — 

We  set  it  apart  from  the  pride  that  stoops  to  the  proud, 

The  strength  that  is  supple  to  serve  the  strong  and  free, 
The  grave  of  the  empty  hands  and  promises  loud; 

Sidney  thirsting  a  humbler  need  to  slake, 

Nelson  waiting  his  turn  for  the  surgeon's  hand, 

Lucas  crushed  with  chains  for  a  comrade's  sake, 
Outram  coveting  right  before  command, 

These  were  paladins,  these  were  Craven's  peers, 
These  with  him  shall  be  crowned  in  story  and  song, 

Crowned  with  the  glitter  of  steel  and  the  glimmer  of  tears, 
Princes  of  courtesy,  merciful,  proud,  and  strong. 

Henry  New  bolt 


COLUMBUS 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said:  "Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo!  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Admiral,  speak,  what  shall  I  say?" 

"Why,  say  'Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!'" 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  433 

"My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Admiral,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 

'Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!"! 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said: 
"Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Admiral,  speak  and  say" — 

He  said:  "Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

They  sailed.    They  sailed.    Then  spake  the  mate: 

"This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite! 
Brave  Admiral,  say  but  one  good  word: 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword: 

"Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.    Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights!    And  then  a  speck — 

A  light!  a  light!  a  light!  a  light! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson:  "On!  sail  on!" 

Joaquin  Miller  ' 


434  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


"O  CAPTAIN!    MY  CAPTAIN!" 

[ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  1809-1865] 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

The  ship  has  weathered  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is 

won, 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  dar- 
ing; 
But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 

O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 
For  you   bouquets   and    ribboned   wreaths— for  you   the 

shores  a-crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turn- 
ing; 
Here  Captain!  dear  father! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 

You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won; 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 

But  I  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  435 


HE  FELL  AMONG  THIEVES 

"Ye  have  robbed,"  said  he,  "ye  have  slaughtered  and  made 
an  end, 

Take  your  ill-got  plunder,  and  bury  the  dead: 
What  will  ye  more  of  your  guest  and  sometime  friend?" 

"Blood  for  our  blood,"  they  said. 

He  laughed:  "If  one  may  settle  the  score  for  five, 
I  am  ready;  but  let  the  reckoning  stand  till  day: 

I  have  loved  the  sunlight  as  dearly  as  any  alive." 
"You  shall  die  at  dawn,"  said  they. 

He  flung  his  empty  revolver  down  the  slope, 

He  climbed  alone  to  the  Eastward  edge  of  the  trees; 

All  night  long  in  a  dream  untroubled  of  hope 
He  brooded,  clasping  his  knees. 

He  did  not  hear  the  monotonous  roar  that  fills 
The  ravine  where  the  Yassin  river  sullenly  flows; 

He  did  not  see  the  starlight  on  the  Laspur  hills, 
Or  the  far  Afghan  snows. 

He  saw  the  April  noon  on  his  books  aglow, 
The  wistaria  trailing  in  at  the  window  wide; 

He  heard  his  father's  voice  from  the  terrace  below 
Calling  him  down  to  ride. 

He  saw  the  gray  little  church  across  the  park, 

The  mounds  that  hid  the  loved  and  honored  dead; 

The  Norman  arch,  the  chancel  softly  dark, 
The  brasses  black  and  red. 

He  saw  the  School  Close,  sunny  and  green, 

The  runner  beside  him,  the  stand  by  the  parapet  wall, 

The  distant  tape,  and  the  crowd  roaring  between, 
His  own  name  over  all. 


436 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


He  saw  the  dark  wainscot  and  timbered  roof, 
The  long  tables,  and  the  faces  merry  and  keen; 

The  College  Eight  and  their  trainer  dining  aloof, 
The  Dons  on  the  dais  serene. 

He  watched  the  liner's  stem  plowing  the  foam, 

He  felt  her  trembling  speed  and  the  thrash  of  her  screw; 

He  heard  the  passengers'  voices  talking  of  home, 
He  saw  the  flag  she  flew. 

And  now  it  was  dawn.    He  rose  strong  on  his  feet, 
And  strode  to  his  ruined  camp  below  the  wood; 

He  drank  the  breath  of  the  morning  cool  and  sweet; 
His  murderers  round  him  stood. 

Light  on  the  Laspur  hills  was  broadening  fast, 

The  blood-red  snow-peaks  chilled  to  a  dazzling  white; 

He  turned,  and  saw  the  golden  circle  at  last, 
Cut  by  the  Eastern  height. 

"O  glorious  Life,  Who  dwellest  in  earth  and  sun, 
I  have  lived,  I  praise  and  adore  Thee." 

A  sword  swept. 

Over  the  pass  the  voices  one  by  one 
Faded,  and  the  hill  slept. 

Henry  Newbolt 


YOUNG  WINDEBANK 

They  shot  young  Windebank  just  here, 

By  Merton,  where  the  sun 
Strikes  on  the  wall.    'Twas  in  a  year 

Of  blood  the  deed  was  done . 

At  morning  from  the  meadows  dim 
He  watched  them  dig  his  grave. 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  437 

Was  this  in  truth  the  end  for  him, 
The  well-beloved  and  brave? 

He  marched  with  soldier  scarf  and  sword, 

Set  free  to  die  that  day, 
And  free  to  speak  once  more  the  word 

That  marshalled  men  obey. 

But  silent  on  the  silent  band 

That  faced  him  stern  as  death, 
He  looked  and  on  the  summer  land, 

And  on  the  grave  beneath. 

Then  with  a  sudden  smile  and  proud 

He  waved  his  plume  and  cried, 
"The  king!  the  king!"  and  laughed  aloud, 

"The  king!  the  king!"  and  died. 

Let  none  affirm  he  vainly  fell, 

And  paid  the  barren  cost 
Of  having  loved  and  served  too  well 

A  poor  cause  and  a  lost. 

He  in  the  soul's  eternal  cause 

Went  forth  as  martyrs  must — 
The  kings  who  make  the  spirit  laws 

And  rule  us  from  the  dust. 

Whose  wills  unshaken  by  the  breath 

Of  adverse  Fate  endure, 
To  give  us  honor  strong  as  death 

And  loyal  love  as  sure. 

Margaret  L.  Woods 


438  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP 

"Give  us  a  song!"  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 

Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.    A  guardsman  said, 
"We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon: 
Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory: 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 

But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 
Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 

Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  439 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 

Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 
With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 

And  bellowing  of  the  mortars! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 

For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory; 
And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 

Who  sang  of  "Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers!  still  in  honored  rest 

Your  truth  and  valor  wearing: 
The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, — 

The  loving  are  the  daring. 

Bayard  Taylor 


"SOLDIER,  REST!  THY  WARFARE  O'ER" 

Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more: 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 


440  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping. 

Walter  Scott 


A  BALLAD  OF  HEROES 

Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain — A.  MARY  F.  ROBINSON 

Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not, — 
Because,  in  some  remoter  day, 

Your  sacred  dust  from  doubtful  spot 
Was  blown  of  ancient  airs  away, — 
Because  you  perished, — must  men  say 

Your  deeds  were  naught,  and  so  profane 
Your  lives  with  that  cold  burden?    Nay, 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 

Though,  it  may  be,  above  the  plot 
That  hid  your  once  imperial  clay, 

No  greener  than  o'er  men  forgot 
The  unregarding  grasses  sway; — 
Though  there  no  sweeter  is  the  lay 

From  careless  bird, — though  you  remain 
Without  distinction  of  decay,— 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  441 

No.    For  while  yet  in  tower  or  cot 

Your  story  stirs  the  pulses'  play; 
And  men  forget  the  sordid  lot — 

The  sordid  care,  of  cities  gray; 

While  yet,  beset  in  homelier  fray, 
They  learn  from  you  the  lesson  plain 

That  Life  may  go,  so  Honor  stay, — 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 


ENVOY 

Heroes  of  old!    I  humbly  lay 

The  laurel  on  your  graves  again; 
Whatever  men  have  done,  men  may, — 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 

Austin  Dobson 


"IF  I  SHOULD  DIE" 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 
That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  forever  England.    There  shall  be 
In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 
Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam; 
A  body  of  England's  breathing  English  air, 
Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  back  somewhere  the  thoughts  by  England  given; 

Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 

And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke 


442  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


EPILOGUE  FROM  "ASOLANDO" 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think,  impris- 
oned— 

Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
— Pity  me  ? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who  ? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  for- 
ward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would 

triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here!" 

Ruben  Browning 


XT.  Life  Lesaons 


THE  NOBLE  NATURE 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear: 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Ben  Jonson 


LIFE  LESSONS 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold: — 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"What  writest  thou?"-— The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.    "Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  Angel.    Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.    The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 
And  lo!  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 

Leigh  Hunt 


"FOR  A'  THAT  AND  A'  THAT" 

Is  there,  for  honest  Poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that! 

The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a*  that! 
445 


446  LIFE  LESSONS 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that; 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 
The  Man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that; 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that; 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may,— 
As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, — 

That  Sense  and  Worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 


LIFE  LESSONS  447 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that— 
That  Man  to  Man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that! 

Robert  Burn.. 

THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ROAD 

There  are  hermit  souls  that  live  withdrawn 

In  the  place  of  their  self-content; 
There  are  souls  like  stars,  that  dwell  apart, 

In  a  fellowless  firmament; 
There  are  pioneer  souls  that  blaze  their  paths 

Where  highways  never  ran — 
But  let  me  live  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by— 
The  men  who  are  good  and  the  men  who  are  bad, 

As  good  and  as  bad  as  I. 
I  would  not  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban- 
Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  see  from  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

By  the  side  of  the  highway  of  life, 
The  men  who  press  with  the  ardor  of  hope, 

The  men  who  are  faint  with  the  strife, 
But  I  turn  not  away  from  their  smiles  nor  their  tears, 

Both  parts  of  an  infinite  plan — 
Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  know  there  are  brook-gladdened  meadows  ahead, 
And  mountains  of  wearisome  height; 


448  LIFE  LESSONS 

That  the  road  passes  on  through  the  long  afternoon 

And  stretches  away  to  the  night. 
And  still  I  rejoice  when  the  travelers  rejoice 

And  weep  with  the  strangers  that  moan, 
Nor  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

Like  a  man  who  dwells  alone. 

Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by— 
They  are  good,  they  are  bad,  they  are  weak,  they  are  strong, 

Wise,  foolish — so  am  I. 
Then  why  should  I  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat, 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban? 
Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

Sam  Walter  Foss 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  NORTHLAND 

Away,  away  in  the  Northland, 

Where  the  hours  of  the  day  are  few, 

And  the  nights  are  so  long  in  winter 
That  they  cannot  sleep  them  through; 

Where  they  harness  the  swift  reindeer 
To  the  sledges,  when  it  snows; 

And  the  children  look  like  bear's  cubs 
In  their  funny,  furry  clothes: 

They  tell  them  a  curious  story — 

I  don't  believe  'tis  true; 
And  yet  you  may  learn  a  lesson 

If  I  tell  the  tale  to  you. 

Once,  when  the  good  Saint  Peter 
Lived  in  the  world  below, 


LIFE  LESSONS  449 

And  walked  about  it,  preaching, 
Just  as  he  did,  you  know, 

He  came  to  the  door  of  a  cottage, 

In  traveling  round  the  earth, 
Where  a  little  woman  was  making  cakes, 

And  baking  them  on  the  hearth; 

And  being  faint  with  fasting, 

For  the  day  was  almost  done, 
He  asked  her,  from  her  store  of  cakes, 

To  give  him  a  single  one. 

So  she  made  a  very  little  cake, 

But  as  it  baking  lay, 
She  looked  at  it,  and  thought  it  seemed 

Too  large  to  give  away. 

Therefore  she  kneaded  another, 

And  still  a  smaller  one; 
But  it  looked,  when  she  turned  it  over, 

As  large  as  the  first  had  done. 

Then  she  took  a  tiny  scrap  of  dough, 

And  rolled  and  rolled  it  flat; 
And  baked  it  thin  as  a  wafer — 

But  she  couldn't  part  with  that. 

For  she  said,  "My  cakes  that  seem  too  small 

When  I  eat  of  them  myself, 
Are  yet  too  large  to  give  away." 

So  she  put  them  on  the  shelf. 

Then  good  Saint  Peter  grew  angry, 

For  he  was  hungry  and  faint; 
And  surely  such  a  woman 

Was  enough  to  provoke  a  saint. 


450  LIFE  LESSONS 

And  he  said,  "You  are  far  too  selfish 

To  dwell  in  a  human  form, 
To  have  both  food  and  shelter, 

And  fire  to  keep  you  warm. 

"Now,  you  shall  build  as  the  birds  do, 
And  shall  get  your  scanty  food 

By  boring,  and  boring,  and  boring, 
All  day  in  the  hard,  dry  wood." 

Then  up  she  went  through  the  chimney, 

Never  speaking  a  word, 
And  out  of  the  top  flew  a  woodpecker, 

For  she  was  changed  to  a  bird. 

She  had  a  scarlet  cap  on  her  head, 

And  that  was  left  the  same, 
But  all  the  rest  of  her  clothes  were  burned 

Black  as  a  coal  in  the  flame. 

And  every  country  school-boy 

Has  seen  her  in  the  wood, 
Where  she  lives  in  the  trees  till  this  very  dayv 

Boring  and  boring  for  food. 

And  this  is  the  lesson  she  teaches: 

Live  not  for  yourself  alone, 
Lest  the  needs  you  will  not  pity 

Shall  one  day  be  your  own. 

Give  plenty  of  what  is  given  to  you, 

Listen  to  pity's  call; 
Don't  think  the  little  you  give  is  great, 

And  the  much  you  get  is  small. 

Now,  my  little  boy,  remember  that, 
And  try  to  be  kind  and  good, 


LIFE  LESSONS  45  i 

When  you  see  the  woodpecker's  sooty  dress, 
And  see  her  scarlet  hood. 

You  mayn't  be  changed  to  a  bird  though  you  live 

As  selfishly  as  you  can; 
But  you  will  be  changed  to  a  smaller  thing — 

A  mean  and  selfish  man. 

Phoebe  Gary 


FOUR  THINGS 

Four  things  a  man  must  learn  to  do 
If  he  would  make  his  record  true: 
To  think  without  confusion  clearly; 
To  love  his  fellow-men  sincerely; 
To  act  from  honest  motives  purely; 
To  trust  in  God  and  Heaven  securely. 

Henry  Fan  Dyke 

THE  CELESTIAL  SURGEON 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not;  if  morning  skies, 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain,— 
Lord,  Thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take, 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  Thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


452  LIFE  LESSONS 


SIR  LARK  AND  KING  SUN:  A  PARABLE 

"Good  morrow,  my  lord!"  in  the  sky  alone, 
Sang  the  lark,  as  the  sun  ascended  his  throne. 
"Shine  on  me,  my  lord;  I  only  am  come, 
Of  all  your  servants,  to  welcome  you  home. 
I  have  flown  right  up,  a  whole  hour,  I  swear, 
To  catch  the  first  shine  of  your  golden  hair." 

"Must  I  thank  you,  then,"  said  the  king,  "Sir  Lark, 

For  flying  so  high  and  hating  the  dark? 

You  ask  a  full  cup  for  half  a  thirst : 

Half  was  love  of  me,  and  half  love  to  be  first. 

There's  many  a  bird  makes  no  such  haste, 

But  waits  till  I  come:  that's  as  much  to  my  taste." 

And  King  Sun  hid  his  head  in  a  turban  of  cloud, 
And  Sir  Lark  stopped  singing,  quite  vexed  and  cowed; 
But  he  flew  up  higher,  and  thought,  "Anon 
The  wrath  of  the  king  will  be  over  and  gone; 
And  his  crown,  shining  out  of  its  cloudy  fold, 
Will  change  my  brown  feathers  to  a  glory  of  gold." 

So  he  flew — with  the  strength  of  a  lark  he  flew; 
But,  as  he  rose,  the  cloud  rose  too; 
And  not  one  gleam  of  the  golden  hair 
Came  through  the  depths  of  the  misty  air; 
Till,  weary  with  flying,  with  sighing  sore, 
The  strong  sun-seeker  could  do  no  more. 

His  wings  had  had  no  chrism  of  gold: 

And  his  feathers  felt  withered  and  worn  and  old; 

He  faltered,  and  sank,  and  dropped  like  a  stone. 

And  there  on  her  nest,  where  he  left  her,  alone 

Sat  his  little  wife  on  her  little  eggs, 

Keeping  them  warm  with  wings  and  legs. 


LIFE  LESSONS  453 

Did  I  say  alone?    Ah,  no  such  thing! 
Full  in  her  face  was  shining  the  king. 
"Welcome,  Sir  Lark!  You  look  tired,"  said  he; 
"  Up  is  not  always  the  best  way  to  me. 
While  you  have  been  singing  so  high  and  away, 
I've  been  shining  to  your  little  wife  all  day." 

He  had  set  his  crown  all  about  the  nest, 

And  out  of  the  midst  shone  her  little  brown  breast; 

And  so  glorious  was  she  in  russet  gold, 

That  for  wonder  and  awe  Sir  Lark  grew  cold. 

He  popped  his  head  under  her  wing,  and  lay 

As  still  as  a  stone,  till  King  Sun  was  away. 

George  Macdonald 


THE  CRICKETS  STORY 

The  high  and  mighty  lord  of  Glendare, 
The  owner  of  acres  both  broad  and  fair, 
Searched,  once  on  a  time,  his  vast  domains, 
His  deep,  green  forest,  and  yellow  plains, 
For  some  rare  singer,  to  make  complete 
The  studied  charms  of  his  country-seat; 
But  found,  for  all  his  pains  and  labors, 
No  sweeter  songster  than  had  his  neighbors. 

Ah,  what  shall  my  lord  of  the  manor  do? 

He  pondered  the  day  and  the  whole  night  through. 

He  called  on  the  gentry  of  hill-top  and  dale;    • 

And  at  last  on  Madame  the  Nightingale,— 

Inviting,  in  his  majestical  way, 

Her  pupils  to  sing  at  his  grand  soiree, 

That  perchance  among  them  my  lord  might  find 

Some  singer  to  whom  his  heart  inclined. 

What  wonder,  then,  when  the  evening  came, 

And  the  castle  gardens  were  all  aflame 


454  LIFE  LESSONS 

With  the  many  curious  lights  that  hung 
O'er  the  ivied  porches,  and  flared  among 
The  grand  old  trees  and  the  banners  proud, 
That  many  a  heart  beat  high  and  loud, 
While  the  famous  choir  of  Glendare  Bog, 
Established  and  led  by  the  Brothers  Frog, 
Sat  thrumming  as  hoarsely  as  they  were  able, 
In  front  of  the  manager's  mushroom  table! 

The  overture  closed  with  a  crash — then,  harki 

Across  the  stage  comes  the  sweet-voiced  Lark. 

She  daintily  sways,  with  an  airy  grace, 

And  flutters  a  bit  of  gossamer  lace, 

While  the  leafy  alcove  echoes  and  thrills 

With  her  liquid  runs  and  lingering  trills. 

Miss  Goldfinch  came  next,  in  her  satin  gown, 

And  shaking  her  feathery  flounces  down, 

With  much  expression  and  feeling  sung 

Some  "Oh's"  and  "Ah's"  in  a  foreign  tongue; 

While  to  give  the  affair  a  classic  tone, 

Miss  Katydid  rendered  a  song  of  her  own, 

In  which  each  line  closed  as  it  had  begun, 

With  some  wonderful  deed  which  she  had  done. 

Then  the  Misses  Sparrow,  so  prim  and  set, 

Twittered  and  chirped  through  a  long  duet; 

And  poor  little  Wren,  who  tried  with  a  will, 

But  who  couldn't  tell  "Heber"  from  "Ortonville," 

Unconscious  of  sarcasm,  piped  away 

And  courtesied  low  o'er  a  huge  bouquet 

Of  crimson  clover-heads,  culled  by  the  d6zen, 

By  some  brown-coated,  plebeian  cousin. 

But  you  should  have  heard  the  red  Robin  sing 
His  English  ballad,  "Come,  beautiful  Spring!" 
And  Master  Owlet's  melodious  tune, 
"O,  meet  me  under  the  silvery  moon!" 


LIFE  LESSONS  455 

Then,  as  flighty  Miss  Humming-bird  didn't  care 

To  sing  for  the  high  and  mighty  Glendare, 

The  close  of  the  evening's  performance  fell 

To  the  fair  young  Nightingale,  Mademoiselle. 

Ah!  the  wealth  of  each  wonderful  note 

That  came  from  the  depths  of  her  tiny  throat! 

She  carolled,  she  trilled,  and  she  held  her  breath, 

Till  she  seemed  to  hang  at  the  point  of  death: 

She  ran  the  chromatics  through  every  key, 

And  ended  triumphant  on  upper  C; 

Airing  the  graces  her  mother  had  taught  her 

In  a  manner  quite  worthy  of  Madame's  daughter. 

But  his  lordship  glared  down  the  leafy  aisle 
With  never  so  much  as  a  nod  or  smile, 
Till,  out  in  the  shade  of  a  blackberry  thicket, 
He  all  of  a  sudden  spied  little  Miss  Cricket; 
And,  roused  from  his  gloom,  like  an  angry  bat, 
He  sternly  demanded,  "Who  is  that?" 
"Miss  Cricket,  my  lord,  may  it  please  you  so, 
A  charity  scholar — ahem! — you  know- 
Quite  worthy,  of  course,  but  we  couldn't  bring" — 
Thundered  His  Mightiness,  "Let  her  sing!" 
The  Nightingale  opened  her  little  eyes 
Extremely  wide  in  her  blank  surprise; 
But  catching  a  glimpse  of  his  lordship's  rage, 
Led  little  Miss  Cricket  upon  the  stage, 
Where  she  modestly  sang,  in  her  simple  measures, 
Of  "Home,  sweet  Home,"  and  its  humble  pleasures. 
And  the  lord  of  Glendare  cried  out  in  his  glee, 
"This  little  Miss  Cricket  shall  sing  for  me!" 

Of  course,  of  comment  there  was  no  need; 

But  the  world  said,  "Really!"  and  "Ah,  indeed!" 

Yet,  notwithstanding,  we  find  it  true 

As  his  lordship  does  will  the  neighbors  do; 


456  LIFE  LESSONS 

So  this  is  the  way,  as  the  legends  tell, 

In  the  very  beginning  it  befell 

That  the  Crickets  came,  in  the  evening's  gloom, 

To  sing  at  our  hearths  of  "Home,  sweet  Home." 

Emma  Huntington  Nason 


TO-DAY 

So  here  hath  been  dawning 

Another  blue  Day: 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it 

Slip  useless  away? 

Out  of  Eternity 

This  new  Day  is  born; 
Into  Eternity, 

At  night,  will  return. 

Behold  it  aforetime 

No  eye  ever  did : 
So  soon  it  for  ever 

From  all  eyes  is  hid. 

Here  hath  been  dawning 

Another  blue  Day: 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it 

Slip  useless  away? 

Thomas  Carlyle 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 


LIFE  LESSONS  457 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whatever  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chafF  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes; 


458  LIFE  LESSONS 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


EXCELSIOR 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior! 

His  brow  was  sad;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior! 

"Try  not  the  Pass!"  the  old  man  said; 
"Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 


LIFE  LESSONS  459 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide!" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior! 

"Oh  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast!" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior! 

"Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior! 

A  traveler,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half  buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


460  LIFE  LESSONS 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE 

WHAT  THE    HEART   OF   THE    YOUNG   MAN    SAID   TO   THE 
PSALMIST 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream! — 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real!    Life  is  earnest! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 


LIFE  LESSONS  461 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


THE  HERITAGE 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 

His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare; 
With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 


462  LIFE  LESSONS 

Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 

A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit, 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 
In  every  useful  toil  and  art; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 

A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit, 

Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door: 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son!  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands; 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands, 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 


LIFE  LESSONS  463 

O  poor  man's  son!  scorn  not  thy  state; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 

Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last; 
Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 

Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 

By  record  of  a  well-filled  past; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

James  Russell  Lowell 

HOW  THE  LITTLE  KITE  LEARNED  TO  FLY 

"I  never  can  do  it,"  the  little  kite  said, 

As  he  looked  at  the  others  high  over  his  head; 

"I  know  I  should  fall  if  I  tried  to  fly." 

"Try,"  said  the  big  kite;  "only  try! 

Or  I  fear  you  never  will  learn  at  all." 

But  the  little  kite  said,  "I'm  afraid  I'll  fall." 

The  big  kite  nodded:  "Ah  well,  goodby; 
I'm  off;"  and  he  rose  toward  the  tranquil  sky. 
Then  the  little  kite's  paper  stirred  at  the  sight, 
And  trembling  he  shook  himself  free  for  flight. 
First  whirling  and  frightened,  then  braver  grown, 
Up,  up  he  rose  through  the  air  alone, 
Till  the  big  kite  looking  down  could  see 
The  little  one  rising  steadily. 

Then  how  the  little  kite  thrilled  with  pride, 
As  he  sailed  with  the  big  kite  side  by  side! 


464  LIFE  LESSONS 

While  far  below  he  could  see  the  ground, 
And  the  boys  like  small  spots  moving  round. 
They  rested  high  in  the  quiet  air, 
And  only  the  birds  and  the  clouds  were  there. 
"Oh,  how  happy  I  am!"  the  little  kite  cried, 
"And  all  because  I  was  brave,  and  tried." 


DO  YOU  FEAR  THE  WIND? 

Do  you  fear  the  force  of  the  wind, 

The  slash  of  the  rain? 

Go  face  them  and  fight  them, 

Be  savage  again. 

Go  hungry  and  cold  like  the  wolf, 

Go  wade  like  the  crane: 
The  palms  of  your  hands  will  thicken, 
The  skin  of  your  cheek  will  tan, 
You'll  grow  ragged  and  weary  and  swarthy, 

But  you'll  walk  like  a  man! 

Hamlin  Garland 


FORBEARANCE 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk  ? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay? 

O  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine! 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


LIFE  LESSONS  465 


THE  SPLENDID  SPUR 

Not  on  the  neck  of  prince  or  hound, 

Nor  on  a  woman's  finger  twined, 
May  gold  from  the  deriding  ground 
Keep  sacred  that  we  sacred  bind: 
Only  the  heel 
Of  splendid  steel 

Shall  stand  secure  on  sliding  fate, 
When  golden  navies  weep  their  freight. 

The  scarlet  hat,  the  laureled  stave 

Are  measures,  not  the  springs,  of  worth; 
In  a  wife's  lap,  as  in  a  grave, 

Man's  airy  notions  mix  with  earth. 
Seek  other  spur 
Bravely  to  stir 

The  dust  in  this  loud  world,  and  tread 
Alp-high  among  the  whispering  dead. 

Trust  in  thyself, — then  spur  amain: 
So  shall  Charybdis  wear  a  grace, 
Grim  ^Etna  laugh,  the  Libyan  plain 
Take  roses  to  her  shriveled  face. 
This  orb — this  round 
Of  sight  and  sound — 
Count  it  the  lists  that  God  hath  built 
For  haughty  hearts  to  ride  a-tilt. 

Arthur  Quiller-Couch 

INVICTUS 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 


466  LIFE  LESSONS 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud: 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds  and  shall  find  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

William  Ernest  Henley 


MY  PRAYER 

Great  God,  I  ask  thee  for  no  meaner  pelf 
Than  that  I  may  not  disappoint  myself; 
That  in  my  action  I  may  soar  as  high 
As  I  can  now  discern  with  this  clear  eye. 

And  next  in  value,  which  thy  kindness  lends, 
That  I  may  greatly  disappoint  my  friends, 
Howe'er  they  think  or  hope  that  it  may  be, 
They  may  not  dream  how  thou'st  distinguished  me. 

That  my  weak  hand  may  equal  my  firm  faith, 
And  my  life  practise  more  than  my  tongue  saith; 
That  my  low  conduct  may  not  show, 

Nor  my  relenting  lines, 
That  I  thy  purpose  did  not  know, 
Or  overrated  thy  designs. 

Henry  David  Thoreau 


LIFE  LESSONS  467 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


LITTLE  AND  GREAT 

A  traveler  on  a  dusty  road 

Strewed  acorns  on  the  lea; 
And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up, 

And  grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  shade  at  evening-time, 

To  breathe  its  early  vows; 
And  Age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon, 

To  bask  beneath  its  boughs. 
The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs, 

The  birds  sweet  music  bore — 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place, 

A  blessing  evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way 
Amid  the  grass  and  fern; 


468  LIFE  LESSONS 

A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well 

Where  weary  men  might  turn; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  Toil  might  drink. 
He  passed  again;  and  lo!  the  well, 

By  summer  never  dried, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parched  tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  dropped  a  random  thought; 

'Twas  old,  and  yet  'twas  new; 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain, 

But  strong  in  being  true. 
It  shone  upon  a  genial  mind, 

And,  lo!  its  light  became 
A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray, 

A  monitory  flame: 
The  thought  was  small;  its  issue  great; 

A  watch-fire  on  the  hill, 
It  sheds  its  radiance  far  adown, 

And  cheers  the  valley  still. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  the  crowd 

That  thronged  the  daily  mart, 
Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love, 

Unstudied  from  the  heart; — 
A  whisper  t>n  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath,— 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 
O  germ!  O  fount!  O  word  of  love! 

O  thought  at  random  cast! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first, 

But  mighty  at  the  last. 

Charles  Mackay 


LIFE  LESSONS  469 


THE  EFFECT  OF  EXAMPLE 

We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand, 

And  dream  we  ne'er  shall  see  them  more; 
But  for  a  thousand  years 
Their  fruit  appears, 
In  weeds  that  mar  the  land, 
Or  healthful  shore. 

The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say, — 
Into  still  air  they  seem  to  fleet, 
We  count  them  ever  past; 
But  they  shall  last,— 
In  the  dread  judgment  they 
And  we  shall  meet. 

I  charge  thee  by  the  years  gone  by, 

For  the  love's  sake  of  brethren  dear, 
Keep  thou  the  one  true  way, 
In  work  and  play, 
Lest  in  that  world  their  cry 
Of  woe  thou  hear. 

John  Kfble 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  DAUGHTER 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep,— 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "Cut  away  the  mast!" 


470  LIFE  LESSONS 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence, — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  with  his  prayers, 

" We  are  lost!"  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"Isn't  God  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land?" 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spake  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 

James  Thomas  Fields 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  chords,  and  drew 
Music  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 
Fearless,  or  brimmed  their  eyes  with  dew. 

Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 
Pure  taste  by  right  divine, 


LIFE  LESSONS  471 

Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine: 

And  so,  well  pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  lie  smoothed, 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 
In  his  seemed  musical  and  low. 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 
They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use, 
For,  in  mere  weeds,  and  stones,  and  springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes, 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for-naught. 

Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 


472  LIFE  LESSONS 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 

James  Russell  Lowell 

GOOD  KING  WENCESLAS 

Good  King  Wenceslas  looked  out, 

On  the  Feast  of  Stephen, 
When  the  snow  lay  round  about, 

Deep,  and  crisp,  and  even: 
Brightly  shone  the  moon  that  night, 

Though  the  frost  was  cruel, 
When  a  poor  man  came  in  sight, 

Gathering  winter  fuel. 

"Hither,  page,  and  stand  by  me, 

If  thou  know'st  it,  telling, 
Yonder  peasant,  who  is  he? 

Where  and  what  his  dwelling?" 
"Sire,  he  lives  a  good  league  hence, 

Underneath  the  mountain; 
Right  against  the  forest  fence, 

By  Saint  Agnes'  fountain." 

"Bring  me  flesh,  and  bring  me  wine. 

Bring  me  pine  logs  hither; 
Thou  and  I  will  see  him  dine, 

When  we  bear  them  thither." 
Page  and  monarch  forth  they  went, 

Forth  they  went  together; 
Through  the  rude  wind's  wild  lament, 

And  the  bitter  weather. 

"Sire,  the  night  is  darker  now, 
And  the  wind  blows  stronger; 


LIFE  LESSONS  473 

Fails  my  heart,  I  know  nor  how, 

I  can  go  no  longer." 
"Mark  my  footsteps,  good  my  page! 

Tread  thou  in  them  boldly: 
Thou  shalt  find  the  winter's  rage 

Freeze  thy  hlood  less  coldly." 

In  his  master's  steps  he  trod, 

Where  the  snow  lay  dinted; 
Heat  was  in  the  very  sod 

Which  the  saint  had  printed. 
Therefore,  Christian  men,  be  sure, 

Wealth  or  rank  possessing, 
Ye  who  now  will  bless  the  poor, 

Shall  yourselves  find  blessing. 

John  Mason  Neal 


THE  HAPPIEST  HEART 

Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 
Shall  lord  it  but  a  day; 
Better  the  lowly  deed  were  done, 
And  kept  the  humble  way. 

The  rust  will  find  the  sword  of  fame, 
The  dust  will  hide  the  crown; 
Ay,  none  shall  nail  so  high  his  name 
Time  will  not  tear  it  down. 

The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 
Was  in  some  quiet  breast 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet, 
And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest. 

John  Vance  Cheney 


474  LIFE  LESSONS 

STANZAS  FROM  "ODE  TO  DUTY" 

STERN  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 

0  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring  and  reprove; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

1  call  thee:  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
O,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live! 

William  Wordsworth. 


xij  GL  Car  fand  of  Cofcf 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  1  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

John  Keats 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

"UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE" 

Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

WTho  doth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

William  Shakespeare 

"BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND" 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho!  sing  heigh-ho!  unto  the  green  holly; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly! 

477 


478  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh-ho!  sing  heigh-ho!  unto  the  green  holly; 
Most  friendship  is. feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 
Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly! 

William  Shakespeare 


"I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD" 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hi 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  in  the  Milky  Way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  479 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  rny  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth 


"THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US" 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William  Wordsworth 


THE  RAINBOW 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 


480  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

And  1  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

William  Wordsworth 


THE  SPACIOUS  FIRMAMENT  ON  HIGH" 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  Sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale; 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

Joseph  Addison 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  481 


ODE  ON  SOLITUDE 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter,  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcernedly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years,  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day; 

Sound  sleep  by  night;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixed,  sweet  recreation, 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please, 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown; 
Thus  unlamented  let  me  die; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope 


THE  SHEPHERD  BOY  SINGS 

He  that  is  down  needs  fear  no  fall, 
He  that  is  low,  no  pride; 

He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 
Have  God  to  be  his  guide. 


482  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

I  am  content  with  what  I  have, 

Little  be  it  or  much: 
And,  Lord,  contentment  still  I  crave, 

Because  Thou  savest  such. 

Fullness  to  such  a  burden  is 

That  go  on  pilgrimage: 
Here  little,  and  hereafter  bliss, 

Is  best  from  age  to  age. 


John  Bunyan 


"HE  LIVETH  LONG  WHO  LIVETH  WELL" 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well! 

All  other  life  is  short  and  vain; 
He  liveth  longest  who  can  tell 

Of  living  most  for  heavenly  gain. 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well! 

All  else  is  being  flung  away; 
He  liveth  longest  who  can  tell 

Of  true  things  truly  done  each  day. 

Waste  not  thy  being;  back  to  Him 
Who  freely  gave  it,  freely  give; 

Else  is  that  being  but  a  dream; 
'Tis  but  to  be,  and  not  to  live. 

Be  what  thou  seemest!  live  thy  creed! 

Hold  up  to  earth  the  torch  divine; 
Be  what  thou  prayest  to  be  made; 

Let  the  great  Master's  steps  be  thine. 

Fill  up  each  hour  with  what  will  last; 

Buy  up  the  moments  as  they  go; 
The  life  above,  when  this  is  past, 

Is  the  ripe  fruit  of  life  below. 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  483 

Sow  truth,  if  thou  the  truth  wouldst  reap: 
Who  sows  the  false  shall  reap  the  vain; 

Erect  and  sound  thy  conscience  keep; 
From  hollow  words  and  deeds  refrain. 

Sow  love,  and  taste  its  fruitage  pure; 

Sow  peace,  and  reap  its  harvests  bright; 
Sow  sunbeams  on  the  rock  and  moor, 

And  find  a  harvest-home  of  light. 

Horatius  Bonar 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  by  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Nor  vice;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend; 


484  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall: 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Henry  Wotton 


THE  LIFE  UPRIGHT 
(INTEGER  VIM) 

The  man  of  life  upright, 
Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 

From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 

Whom  hope  cannot  delude, 
Nor  sorrow  discontent; 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 
Nor  armor  for  defense, 

Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 
From  thunder's  violence: 

He  only  can  behold 
With  unaffrighted  eyes 

The  horrors  of  the  deep 
And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus,  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 
His  wisdom  heavenly  things; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 
His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  485 

The  earth  his  sober  inn 
And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

After  Horace,  by  Thomas  Campion 


HONESTY 

Thou  must  be  true  thyself, 
If  thou  the  truth  wouldst  teach; 
Thy  soul  must  overflow,  if  thou 
Another's  soul  wouldst  reach! 
It  needs  the  overflow  of  heart 
To  give  the  lips  full  speech. 

Think  truly,  and  thy  thoughts 
§hall  the  world's  famine  feed; 
Speak  truly,  and  each  word  of  thine 
Shall  be  a  fruitful  seed; 
Live  truly,  and  thy  life  shall  be 
A  great  and  noble  creed. 

Horatius  Sonar 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 

And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to  hide, 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide; 

"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?" 

I  fondly  ask.     But  patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts;  who  best 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best;  his  state 

Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 


486  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest: 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

John  Milton 

"SAY  NOT,  THE  STRUGGLE  NAUGHT  AVAILETH" 

Say  not,  the  struggle  naught  availeth, 
The  lahor  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 

Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 
Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 

Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light; 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly! 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough 

TO  A  MOUSE 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOW,  NOVEMBER,  1785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastk  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle! 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  487 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  laive, 

And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  an'  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, — 
Till,  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  passed 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 


488  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men, 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  naught  but  grief  an'  pain, 

For  promised  joy! 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But,  och!  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

1  guess  an'  fear! 


Robert  Burns 


THE  RHODORA 

ON    BEING   ASKED   WHENCE    IS   THE    FLOWER 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora!  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 
Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being: 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew: 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought  you. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  489 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme: 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these?    What  maidens  loth? 
WThat  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?-    What  wild  ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 


Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  love! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 

For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


490 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 


Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  dressed? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!  fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  arid  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form!  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity.    Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

John  Keats 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

r* 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  491 

As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born. 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 

sings- 
Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


TO  A  WATERFOWL 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day- 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 


492  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD       493 


GRADATIM 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true: 
That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God, 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  clod 

To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view. 

We  rise  by  the  things  that  are  under  feet; 

By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain; 

By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 
When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light, 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the  night, 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray, 

And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things, 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  men! 

We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way— 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  pray; 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls; 
But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls, 

And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 


494  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit,  round  by  round. 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 


A  TURKISH  LEGEND 

A  certain  Pasha,  dead  five  thousand  years, 
Once  from  his  harem  fled  in  sudden  tears, 

And  had  this  sentence  on  the  city's  gate 
Deeply  engraven,  "Only  God  is  great/' 

So  these  four  words  above  the  city's  noise 
Hung  like  the  accents  of  an  angel's  voice, 

And  evermore,  from  the  high  barbican, 
Saluted  each  returning  caravan. 

Lost  is  that  city's  glory.    Every  gust 

Lifts,  with  dead  leaves,  the  unknown  Pasha's  dust, 

And  all  is  ruin, — save  one  wrinkled  gate 
Whereon  is  written,  "Only  God  is  great." 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 


OZYMANDIAS  OF  EGYPT 

I  met  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said:  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.    Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  495 

Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
"My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!" 
Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

"SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN  WAYS" 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eyef 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me! 

William  Wordsworth 


"THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW" 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 


496  A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mold  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round; 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  497 

This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 
And  never  more  will  be. 

William  Wordsworth 


ANNABEL  LEE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulcher 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes!  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 


498 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 


But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  499 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke: 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour: 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 


500 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  501 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


502 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 


"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he: 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn:" 

THE    EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray 


THANATOPSIS 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  503 

A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.    When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart; — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around— 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice: — 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.    Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.    The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 


504 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 


All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.    The  hills 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vale 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 

The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,— 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there: 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure?    All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.    The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 

His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men — 

The  youth  in  life's  fresh  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 

The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  505 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


506 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 


RB:QUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


"SO  BE  MY  PASSING" 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies 

And  from  the  west, 

Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended, 

Lingers  as  in  content, 

There  falls  on  the  old,  gray  city 

An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 

A  shining  peace. 

The  smoke  ascends 

In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.    The  spires 

Shine  and  are  changed.     In  the  valley 

Shadows  rise.    The  lark  sings  on.    The  sun, 

Closing  his  benediction, 

Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 

Thrills  with  a  sense  of  the  triumphing  night— 

Night  with  her  train  of  stars 

And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing! 

My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done, 

My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 

Some  late  lark  singing, 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD  507 

Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west, 
The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 
Death. 

William  Ernest  Henley 

PROSPICE 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul!    I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 

Robert  Browning 


508 


A  GARLAND  OF  GOLD 


"JOY,  SHIPMATE,  JOY!" 

Joy,  shipmate,  joy! 
(Pleased  to  my  soul  at  death  I  cry) 
Our  life  is  closed,  our  life  begins, 
The  long,  long  anchorage  we  leave, 
The  ship  is  clear  at  last,  she  leaps! 
She  swiftly  courses  from  the  shore, 
Joy,  shipmate,  joy! 

Walt  Whitman 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


ABBEY,  HENRY 

Born  at  Rondout,  N.  Y.,  July  u, 
;>V/_v  died  at  Kingston,  N.  Y.,  June  7, 
1911. 

"What  do  we  Plant" 263 

ADAMS,    WILLIAM    HENRY    DAVEN- 
PORT 

Born  in  London,  England,  May  5, 
1828;  died  there,   December  30,   1891. 
The  Last  Voyage  of  the  Fair- 
ies     177 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH 

Born  at  Milston,  Wilts,  England, 
May  I,  1672;  died  in  London,  June  17, 

I7IQ. 

"The   Spacious   Firmament 
on  High" 480 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY 

Born  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  No- 
vember n,  1836;  died  at  Boston,  Mass., 
March  IQ,  1007. 

Kriss  Kringle 202 

Turkish  Legend,  A 494 

ALEXANDER,  CECIL  FRANCES 

Born  in  County  Wicklow,  Ireland, 
in  1818;  died  at  Londonderry,  Ireland, 
October  12,  1805. 

The  Adoration  of  the  Wise 
Men 194 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM 

Born  at  Ballyshannon,  Donegal, 
Ireland,  March  IQ,  1824;  died  at  II amp- 
stead,  England,  November  18,  1889. 

Fairies,  The 157 

Homeward   Bound 296 

Robin  Redbreast 231 

Wishing 98 

ALMA-TADEMA,  LAURENCE 

An  English  writer,  now  living  at 
Wittersham,  Kent,  England. 

Playgrounds 209 

Strange  Lands 26 

B 

BANGS,  JOHN  KENDRICK 

Born  at   Yonkers,   N.   Y.,    May  27, 
1862;  now  living  in  New  York  City. 
The  Little  Elf .  .  .162 


BARR,  MATTHIAS 
An  English  writer,  born  in  1831. 
"Moon,  so  Round  and  Yel- 
low"       16 

"Only  a  Baby  Small" 25 

BASHFORD,  HERBERT 

Born  at  Sioux  City,  Iowa,  March  4, 
1871;  now  living  in  San  Francisco. 
Lullaby  in  Bethlehem 195 

BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYNES 

Born  at  Bath,  England,  October  13, 
1797;  died  in  London,  April  22,  1839. 
"Oh!  Where  do  Fairies  Hide 
Their  Heads" 176 

BEECHING,  HENRY  CHARLES 

An   English   writer,    born   May   15, 
1859,  and  now  living  in  London. 
Going  down  Hill  on  a  Bicycle  212 

BELLOC,  HILAIRE 

An  English  writer,  born  July  27, 
1870,  and  now  living  at  King's  Land, 
Shipley,  Horsham,  England. 

The  Frog 149 

The  Python 150 

The  Yak 150 

BENNETT,  HENRY  HOLCOMB 

Born  at  Chillicothe,  Ohio,  Decem- 
ber Si  1863,  and  still  living  there. 

The  Flag  Goes  By 388 

BIRD,  ROBERT 

No  biographical  data  available. 
The  Fairy  Folk 175 

BjORNSON,  BjORNSTJERNE 

Born  at  Kvikne,  Norway,  December  8, 
1832;  died  in  1910. 

The  Tree 261 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM 

Born  in  London,  England,  No- 
vember 28,  1757;  died  there,  August  12, 
1827. 

Cradle  Song 45 

Infant  Joy 25 

Lamb,  The 17 

Little  Black  Boy,  The 118 

Night 240 

Nurse's  Song 115 

Reeds  of  Innocence 90 

Tiger,  The 268 


512 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


BLAND,   MRS.  HUBERT,   see  NESBIT, 
EDITH 

BONAR,  HORATIUS 

Born  at  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  Decem- 
ber IQ,  1808;  died  there,  July  31,  1889. 
"He  Liveth  Long  Who  Liveth 

Well" 482 

Honesty 485 

BOSTWICK,  HELEN  BARRON 
An  American  writer,  born  in  1826. 
Little  Dandelion 253 

BOWLES,  WILLIAM  LISLE 

Born   at  King's  Sutton,   Northamp- 
tonshire, England,  September  24,  1762; 
died  at  Salisbury,   England,   in   1850. 
The  Butterfly  and  the  Bee      66 

BOYLE,  SARAH  ROBERTS 

Born  at  Portsmouth,  N.  II.,  in  1812; 
died  in  New  York  City  in  1869. 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass 258 

BROOKE,  RUPERT 

A  young  English  poet,  who  died  in 
April,    1915,    while    with    the    British 
expedition    against   the   Dardanelles. 
"If  I  Should  Die" 441 

BROWN,  ABBIE  FARWELL 

Born    at    Boston,    Mass.,    and    still 

living    there. 

Fairy  Book,  The 156 

Friends 209 

BROWNING,  ROBERT 

Born  in  London,  England,  May  7, 
1812;  died  at  Venice,  Italy,  December  12, 
1889. 

Epilogue  from  "Asolando". .  442 

Herve  Riel 313 

Home     Thoughts,     from 

Abroad 219 

"How    They    Brought    the 

Good  News  from  Ghent"  318 
Incident  of  the  French  Camp  405 
Pi«-d  riper  of  Ilamelin,  The  361 

Prospice 507 

Song,    "The   year's    at    the 
spring" 213 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CUU.F.N 

Born  at  C'ummington,  Mass.,  No- 
vember 3,  170  t;  died  in  \KC  York  City, 
June  12,  1878. 

Gladness  of  Nature,  The ....    208 
"Oh   Mother  of  a   Mighty 

Rare" 385 

Planting  of  the  Apple  tree, 
The 263 


Robert  of  Lincoln 279 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 402 

Thanatopsis 502 

To  a  Waterfowl 491 

BUNYAN,  JOHN 

Born  at  Elstow,  Bedfordshire,  Eng- 
land, in  November,  1628;  died  in  Lon- 
don, August  31,  1688. 

The  Shepherd  Boy  Sings ....  481 

BURGESS,  GELETT 

Born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  January  30, 
1866,  and  still  living  there. 

The  Purple  Cow 154 

BURNHAM,  MAUD 
No    biographical    data    available. 
The  Five  Little  Fairies 31 

BURNS,  ROBERT 

Born  at  Alloway,  Scotland,  January 
2 5,  1759',  died  at  Dumfries,  Scotland, 
July  21,  1796. 

"For  a'  That  and  a'  That" 445 

To  a  Mouse 486 

BUTTS,  MARY  F. 

No    biographical    data    available. 
Trot,  Trot 42 

BYRON,  MARY  C.  G. 

Born  in  Cheshire,  England,  in  1861, 

and  still  living  there. 

The  Fairy  Thrall 150 


CALDWELL,  WILLIAM  WARNER 

Born  at  Newburyport,  Mass.,  Octo- 
ber 28,  1823. 

Robin's  Come 217 

CAMPBELL,  THOMAS 

Born  at  Glasgow,  Scotland,  July  j.?, 

1777;  died  at  Boulogne,  France.  June  i  •?, 

1844. 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter ,^~ 

"Ye    Mariners  of    Kngland"  389 

CAMITON,  Tm>\i\s 

Horn    in    /-.'wrr.    England,    date    un- 
died  in    London,   in   February, 
1619. 

The  Life  I'pright 484 

CANTON.  WII.LI  \\i 

Horn   mi   the   Island  of  Chusan,  in 
the  China   Sea,   October  17,   1845;  now 

at   Berkkamsted,    England. 
Carol 183 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


513 


CARLYLK,  THOM  \s 
Born  at  Eeelefechan,   Dumfriesshire, 

Scotland,    December    /,    ir<j;;   died   in 

London,    England,   February  ./,    /.V,V/. 

To-day ' 456 

CARMAN,  WILLIAM  BLISS 

Born  at  Fredericton,  XKC  Bruns- 
wick, .  1  pril  16,  1861,  and  now  living 
at  .\r:c  Canaan,  Conn. 

The  Joys  of  the  Road 299 

C  \K\KY,  Jn.I A    Fl.KTCTIER 

Born   at   Lancaster,   Mass.,  April  6, 

/.Vj  ,v  died  at  Galcsburg,  III.,  in  1908. 

Little  Things 80 

CARROLL,  LEWIS  [CHARLES  LUTWIDGE 

DODGSON] 

Born  at  Daresbury,  England,  Janu- 
ary 27,  1832;  died  al  Guildford,  Eng- 
land, January  14,  1898. 

"He  Thought  He  Saw," 138 

The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter  135 
The  Whiting  and  the  Snail 134 

CARRYL,  CHARLES  EDWARD 
Born  in  New  York  City,  December 

30,  1841,  and  still  living  there. 

My  Recollectest  Thoughts.. .    124 

Plaint  of  the  Camel,  The 153 

Robinson  Crusoe 144 

GARY,  PHOEBE 

Born  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  Septem- 
ber 4,  1824;  died  at  Newport,  R.  I., 
July  21,  1871. 

A  Legend  of  the  Northland. .  .   448 

CHALMERS,  PATRICK  R. 
A  contemporary  English  writer. 
The  Visitor 163 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE 

Born  at  Grovcland,  N.  Y .,  December 
20,  1848,  and  now  living  at  San  Diego, 
Col. 

The  Happiest  Heart 473 

CHESTERTON,  GILBERT  KEITH 

Born  in  London,  England,  in  1874, 
ami  still  living  there. 

A  Christmas  Carol 182 

GIBBER,  COLLEY 

Born  in  London,  England,  November 

6,  1671;  died  there,  December  12,  1757. 

The  Blind  Boy 119 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH 
Born  at  Liverpool,  England,  January 


i,  1810;  died  at  Florence,  Italy,  Novem- 
ber i  ,-,  1861. 

"Say      Not,      the      Struggle 
Naught    Availcth 486 

Cm.i  RIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR 

Born  at  Ollcry  Saint  Mary,  Devon- 
shire, ]-'.n gland,  October  21,  1772;  died 
in  London,  July  25,  1834. 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question.   278 

COLERIDGE,  SARA 

Born  near  Keswick,  England,  Decem- 
ber 22,  1802;  died  in  London,  May  3, 
1852. 

The  Garden  Year 34 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM 

Born  at  Chichester,  England,  Decem- 
ber 25,  1721;  died  there,  June  12,  1759. 
"How  Sleep  the  Brave" 420 

COOLIDGE,  SUSAN  [SARAH  CHAUNCEY 

WOOLSEY] 

Born  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  in  1845; 
died  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  in  1005. 

How  the  Leaves  Came  Down.    2  29 

COOPER,  GEORGE 

Born  in  New  York  City  in  1840. 

Baby-land 2 

Bob  White 279 

October's  Party 228 

CORBET,  RICHARD 

Born  at  Ewell,  Surrey,  England,  in 
1582;  died,  Bishop  of  Norwich,  at 
Norwich,  July  28,  1635. 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies 180 

CORNWALL,    BARRY,     SEE    PROCTER, 
BRYAN  CORNWALL 

COURTHOPE,  WILLIAM  JOHN 

Born  in  Sussex,  England,  July  17, 
1842,  and  still  living  there. 

The  Trail  of  the  Bird 277 

COWLKY,  ABRAHAM 

Born  in  London,  England,  in  1618; 
died  at  Chertsey,  Surrey,  England,  July 
28,  1667. 

The  Grasshopper 275 

COWPER,  William 

Born  at  Great  Bcrkhampstead,  Hert- 
fordshire, England,  November  15,  1731,' 
died  al  East  Dereham,  Norfolk,  Eng- 
land, April  25,  1800. 

Diverting    History    of    John 

Gilpin,  The 37° 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare 266 


514 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


The  Cricket 274 

The  Jackdaw 283 

The  Snail 269 

CRAIK,  DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK 

Born  at  Stoke-on-Trent,  England,  in 
1826;  died  at  Shorllands,  Kent,  Eng- 
land, October  12, 1887. 

Green  Tilings  Growing 248 

CROSBY,  ERNEST  HOWARD 

Born  in  New  York  City  in  1856;  died 
in  1907. 

In  the  Garden 113 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN 

Born  at  Blackwood,  Dumfriesshire, 
Scotland,  December  7,  1784;  died  in 
London,  October  30,  1842. 

"A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing 
Sea" 294 


D 

DELANO,  MARGARET  WADE 

Born  at  Allegheny,  Pa.,  February  23, 

1857,  and  now  living  at  Boston,  Mass. 

The  Fairies'  Shopping 164 

"While  Shepherds  Watched"  188 

DICKENS,  CHARLES 

Born  at  Landport,  near  Portsmouth, 
England,  February  7,  1812;  died  at 
Gadshill,  near  Rochester,  England, 
June  Q,  1870. 

The  Ivy  Green 256 

DICKINSON,  EMILY 

Born  at  A  mhcrst,  Mass.,  December  10, 
1830;  died  there,  May  15,  1886. 

The  Grass 259 

DOANE,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON 

Born  at  Trenton,  N.  J .,  May  27, 
1799;  died  at  Burlington,  N.  J .,  April 
27,  1859- 

Robin  Redbreast 285 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY  THOMPSON 

Born  at  Cranbrook,  Km/,  England, 

April    5,     /.V..'./;  died    at    Nailsworth, 

Gloucester,  England,  August  22,  1874. 

A  Chanted  Calendar 249 

DOBSON,  A i 

Born  at  Plymouth,  England,  January 
18,  1840,  and  now  living  in  London. 
A  Ballad  of  Heroes 440 

DODGE,  MARY  MAPES 

Born  in  New  York  City  in  1838;  died 
in  1905. 


One  and  One 
Snow-flakes 


DODGSON,   CHARLES  LUTWIDGE, 
CARROLL,  LEWIS 

DOTY,  WALTER  G. 

A  contemporary  American  writer  . 
The  Best  Firm  .  .  . 

DOYLE,  [SIR]  ARTHUR  CONAN 

Born  at  Edinburgh,   Scotland,  May 

22,  1859;  now  living  in  Sussex,  England 

The  Song  of  the  Bow  .......  392 

DOYLE,     [SIR]     FRANCIS     HASTINGS 

CHARLES 
Born    at    Nunappleton,     Yorkshit 
England,    August    21,    1810;  died    it 
London,  June  8,  1888. 

The  Loss  of  the  Birkenhead  .  . 

The  Private  of  the  Buffs  .....  4c 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN 

Born  in  New  York  City,  August  7, 
i?95!  died  there,  September  21,  1820. 
The  American  Flag  ........  3* 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL 

Born  at  Harlshill,  Wanvirkshirt 
England,  in  1563;  died  in  London  it 
1631. 

Agincourt  .................  3( 


ELLIOTT,  MARY 

An   English  writer,   no   biographies 
data  available. 

Think  Before  You  Act 7. 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 

Born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  May  23, 
1803;  died  at  Concord,  Mass.,  April 
27,  iSfij. 

Concord  Hymn 

Duty 

Forbearance 

The  Humble- Bee 2; 

TheRhodora 

ERSKINE,  FRANCIS  ROBERT  ST.  CLAIR 

[EARL  OF  ROSSLYN] 
An  English  writer,  born  in  1833; 
in  1890. 

Bedtime 


FADER,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM 
Born  at  Calverley,    Yorkshire, 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


515 


land,  June  28,  1814;  died  at  Brompton, 
England,  September  26,  1863. 

Written   in   a   Little  Lady's 
Little  Album 87 

FERGUSON,  JAMES 

A  Scotch  writer;  no  biographical  data 
available. 

A ukl  Daddy  Darkness 48 

FIELD,  EUGENE 

Born  at  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  in  1850;  died 

at  Chicago,  III.,  in  1805. 

Duel,  The 146 

Jest  'Fore  Christmas 198 

Seein'  Things 101 

Sugar-Plum  Tree,  The 50 

Wynken,  Blynken  and  Nod .  .  51 

FIELDS,  JAMES  THOMAS 

Born  at  Portsmouth,  N .  H .,  December 
31,  1816;  died  at  Boston,  Mass.,  April 
24,  1 88 1. 

The  Captain's  Daughter ....  469 

FLAGG,  WILSON 

Born  at  Beverly,  Mass.,  November  5, 
1805;  died  at  North  Cambridge,  Mass., 
May  6,  1884. 

The  O'Lincon  Family 282 

Foss,  SAM  WALTER 

Born  at  Candia,  N.  H.,  June  IQ, 
1858;  died  at  Somerville,  Mass.,  Feb- 
ruary 26,  IQII. 

The  House  by  the  Side  of  the 
Road 447 

FRERE,  JOHN  HOOKHAM 

Born  in  London,  England,  May  21, 
1760;  died  at  Valelta,  Malta,  January 
7,  1846. 

The  Boy  and  the  Wolf 73 


GALE,  NORMAN 
An   English   writer,    born   in    1862, 

and  now  living  near  Rugby. 

Bartholomew 27 

The  Fairy  Book 174 

GARLAND,  HAMLIN 

Born  at  West  Salem,  Wis.,  September 

16,  1860,  and  now  living  at  Chicago,  III. 

Do  You  Fear  the  Wind 464 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON 

Born  at  Bordentown,  N.  J .,  Febru- 
ary 8,  1844;  died  in  New  York  City, 
November  18,  IQOQ. 

The  Christmas  Tree  in  the 
Nursery 200 


GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER 

Born  at  Pallas,  County  Longford, 
Ireland,  November  w,  1728;  died  in 
London,  A  pril  4,  1774. 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a 
Mad  Dog 139 

GOULD,  HANNAH  FLAGG 

Born  at  Lancaster,  Mass.,  in  1780; 
died  at  Newburyport,  Mass.,  September 
5,  1865. 

The  Frost 232 

GRAY,  THOMAS 

Born  in  London,  England,  Decem- 
ber 27,  1716;  died  at  Cambridge,  Eng- 
land, July  30,  1771. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 
Churchyard 498 

GREENE,  ALBERT  GORTON 

Born  at  Providence,  R.  I.,  February 
10,  1802;  died  at  Cleveland,  Ohio, 
January  4,  1868. 

Old  Grimes 140 

H 

HAWKSHAW,  MRS. 

No  biographical  data  available. 

Little  Raindrops 95 

HEMANS,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA 

Born  at  Liverpool,  England,  Sep- 
tember 25,  1703;  died  near  Dublin, 
Ireland,  May  16,  1835. 

Casabianca 426 

Fairy  Song 1 79 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim 

Fathers 425 

HENLEY,  WILLIAM  ERNEST 

Born  at  Gloucester,  England,  August 

23,   1840;  died  in   London,   June    n, 

IQ03- 

"England,  My  England".  ..   390 

Invictus 465 

"So  Be  My  Passing" 506 

HEPBURN,     THOMAS     NICOLL,     SEE 
SETOUN,  GABRIEL 

HERFORD,  OLIVER 

Born    at    Manchester,    England,    in 

December,  1863,  and  now  living  in  New 

York  City. 

Elf  and  the  Dormouse,  The .  .    162 

Seal,  A 149 

Yak,  The 149 

HERRICK,  ROBERT 

Born  in  London,  England,  in  A  ugust, 


516 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


iSQi;  died  at  Dean  Prior,  Devonshire, 

England,  in  October,  1674. 

Argument  of  this  Book,  The    viii 

Ternarie  of  Littles,  A Si 

To  Daffodils 250 

HINKSON,    KATHERINE    TYNAN,    SEE 
TYNAN,  KATHERINE 

HOFFMAN,  AUGUST  HEINRICH 

Born  at  Fallersleben,  Hanover,  Prus- 
sia, April  2,  1798;  died  near  H oxter, 
Prussia,  January  20,  1874. 

The  Story  of  Augustus,  Who 

Would  not  have  any  Soup . .     62 
The  Story  of  Little  Suck-a- 
Thumb 66 

HOGG,  JAMES 

Born  at  Ettrick,  Selkirkshire,  Scot- 
land, in  1770;  died  at  Eltrive  Lake, 
November  21,  1835. 

A  Boy's  Song 212 

The  Skylark 287 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT 

Born    at    Belcher  town,    Mass.,    July 

24,    i8iQ;    died   in   New    York    City, 

October  21,  1881. 

A  Christmas  Carol 183 

Gradatim 493 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

Born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,   A  must 

2Q,  i8oQ;  died  there,  October  7,  i8Q.}. 
Chambered  Nautilus,  The. .  .    490 

Old  Ironsides 407 

To  an  Insect 272 

HOOD,  THOMAS 

Born  in  London,  England,  May  _• ,, 
I79Q!  died  there,  May  3,  /<V./5. 

Queen  Mab 160 

HOVELL-TlIURLOW,     EDWARD     [BARON 

THURLOW] 

Born  in  London,  England,  June  ra, 
1781;  died  at  Brighton,  l-'.ngland,  June 
4,  /.Vjy. 

"When  in  the  Woods  I  Wan- 
der All  Alone" 206 

Hovi.v,  RICH\RD 

Horn  at  Normal,  III.,  in  i,\'f>  >;  died 
in  /poo. 

The  Sea  Gipsy 297 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD 

Born  in  New  York  Citv.  .U<;v  j~, 
i8iQ;  died  at  Ncu'port,  R.  I.,  Odolxr 
17,  IQIO. 

Battle- Hymn  of  the  Republic.  386 


HOWITT,  MARY 

Born  at  Coleford,  Gloucestershire, 
England,  March  12,  17  QQ',  died  at 
Rome,  Italy,  January  30,  1888. 

Buttercups  and  Daisies 85 

The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low  170 
The  Spider  and  the  Fly 99 

HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH 

Born  at  Southgate,  near  London, 
England,  October  IQ,  1784;  died  at 
Putney,  England,  August  28,  i85Q. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 445 

The  Glove  and  the  Lions. ...   324 


JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT 

Born  at  Amherst,  Mass.,  October  18, 
1831;  died  at  San  Francisco,  Cal., 
August  12,  1885. 

October's  Bright  Blue  Weather  227 

JANVIER,  MARGARET  THOMSON  [MAR- 
GARET VANDEGRIFT] 
Born  at  New  Orleans,  La.,  in  1X45; 
died  at  Norwood,  Mass.,  in  February, 

The  Sandman 41) 


JOHNSON,  BURGESS 

Born  at  Rutland,    Vt.,   November  o, 

1877,  and  noii1  living  in  New  York  City. 

My  Sore  Thumb in 

JOHNSTONE,  HENRY  [LORD  JOHNSTON i  1 
Born   at  Edinburgh,   Scotland,    Feb- 
ruary 5,  1844,  and  still  living  .'here. 
The  Fastidious  Serpent 152 

JONKS,  [SIR]  WILLIAM 

Born  in  London,  England,  September 
3S,  1746;  died  at  Calcutta,  India,  .•!/>;•// 
27,  1704. 

An  Ode  in  Imitation  of  Al- 
caeus 1 1 5 

Jo\so\.  Hi  \ 

Horn  in  London,  F.n  gland,  about 
1573;  died  there,  .1  ugust  6,  1637. 

The  Xohlc  Nature \\\ 

K 

K I:\TS,  JOHN 

Horn  in  London,  England,  October 
~->j,  I?')*;  ditd  at  Rome,  Italy,  February 

Odi-on  a  Grecian  Urn 489 

On  First  Looking  into  Chap- 
man's Homer 476 

To  Autumn 226 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


517 


KEBLE,  JOHN 

Born  at  F  airfield,  Gloucestershire, 
England,  April  25,  /70-V  died  at 
Bournemouth,  England,  March  27, 
1866. 

The  KftVct  of  Example i<><) 

Ki  v,  FK  \\ris  SCOTT 

Born  in  Frederic  County,  Md., 
August  o,  /;-sv>;  died  at  Washington, 
D.  C.,  January  u,  /<V.;.?. 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner.  .    382 

KII.MKR.  JOYCK 

Born  at  New  Brunswick,  N.  J ., 
December  6,  1886;  now  living  at 
Mahwah,  N.  J. 

Trees... 260 

KIVGSLEY,  CHARLES 

Born  in  Devonshire,  England,  June 
12,  1810;  died  at  Eversley,  England, 
January  23,  1875. 

A  Farewell    87 

KIPLING,  Rim  YARD 

Born  at  Bombay,  India,  December  30, 
186=;,  and  now  living  in  Sussex,  Eng- 
land. 

Recessional 417 


LAMB,  CHARLES  AND  MARY 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  were 
brother  and  sister,  who  were  joint 
authors  of  some  famous  verses  for  chil- 
dren. Both  were  born  in  London,  Eng- 
land, Charles  in  1775,  Mary  in  1764. 
The  former  died  in  1834,  the  latter  in 
1847. 

Anger 78 

LARCOM,  LUCY 

Born  at  Beverly,  Mass.,  in  1824; 
died  at  Boston,  April  17,  1893. 

Brown  Thrush,  The 292 


Plant  a  Tree . 


261 


LEAR,  EDWARD 

Born  in  London,  England,  May  12, 
1812;  died  at  San  Remo,  Italy,  in  1888. 

Jumblies,  The 128 

Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat,  The.   130 
Pobble  Who  Has  No  Toes, 

The 131 

Table  and  the  Chair,  The ...    132 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH 

Born  at  Portland,  Maine,  February 
27,  1807;  died  at  Cambridge,  Mass., 
March  24, 1882. 


Arrow  and  tin-  SOUK,  The.  .  .  .  467 

Children's  Hour,  The 121 

Christmas  Bells 197 

Excelsior 458 

Hymn  to  the  Night 238 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 305 

Psalm  of  Life,  A 460 

Ship  of  State,  The 416 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 423 

Skrlrton  in  Armor,  The 344 

Three  Kings,  The 192 

Village  Blacksmith,  The 456 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The.  334 

LOVEMAN,  ROBERT 

Born  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  April  n, 
1864;  now  living  at  Dalton,  Ga. 

April  Rain 221 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 

Born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  February 
22,  1810;  died  there,  August  12,  1891. 

Fatherland,  The 416 

Heritage,  The 461 

June 224 

Shepherd  of  King  Admetus, 

The 470 

To  the  Dandelion 254 

LUCAS,  EDWARD  VERRALL 

An  English  writer,  now  living  in 
London. 

Mr.  Coggs 94 

M 

MACAULAY,       THOMAS       BABINGTON 

[FIRST  BARON  MACAULAY] 
Born     in     Leicestershire,     England, 

October    25,     1800;  died    in    London, 

December  28,  1859. 

Ivry .  .  7 398 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE 

Born  at  Huntly,  West  Aberdeenshire, 
Scotland,  December  10,  1824;  died  at 
Ashtead,  England,  September  18,  1005. 

Baby 26 

Little  White  Lily 257 

Sir  Lark  and  King  Sun 452 

The  Wind  and  the  Moon 242 

MACKAY,  CHARLES 

Born  at  Perth,  Scotland,  March  27, 
1814;  died  in  London,  December  24, 
1889. 

Little  and  Great 467 

MASEFIELD,  JOHN 

Born  in  Shropshire,  England,  in 
1874,  and  now  living  in  London. 

Sea  Fever 298 


518 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


MEREDITH,  WILLIAM  TUCKEY 
An  American  writer,  born  in  1830. 
Farragut 412 

MILLER,       JOAQUIN       [CINCINNATI^ 

HINER] 

Born  in  Wabash  Di^fricl,  Ind., 
November  10,  1841;  died  at  Oakland 
Heights,  Cal.,  February  17,  1913. 

Columbus 432 

MILLER,  WILLIAM 

Born  at  Glasgow,  Scotland,  in  August 
1810;  died  there  August  20,  1872. 

Willie  Winkie 47 

MILTON,  JOHN 

Born  in  London,  England,  December 

9,  1608;  died  there,  November  8,  1674. 

On  His  Blindness 485 

Song:  On  May  Morning.  .  .  .   222 

MOORE,  CLEMENT  CLARKE 

Born  in  New  York  City,  July  15, 
1779;  died  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  July  10, 
1863. 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas ....   203 

MOTHERWELL,  WlLLIAM 

Born  at  Glasgow,   Scotland,   October 

13,  I7Q7!  died  there,  November  i,  1835. 

"Sing  on,  Blithe  Bird" 58 

N 

NASON,  EMMA  HUNTINGTON 

Born  at  Hallowcll,   Me.,  August  6\ 
1845,  and  now  living  at  Augusta,  Me. 
The  Cricket's  Story 453 

NEAL,  JOHN  MASON 

Born  in  London,  England,  Jan- 
uary 24,  1818;  died  at  East  Grin- 
stead,  England,  August  6,  1866. 

Good  King  Wenceslas 472 

NKSBIT,  EDITH  [MRS.  HUBERT  BLAND] 
Horn  in  London,  England,  in  1858, 
and  now  living  in  Kent,  England. 

Baby  Seed  Song 222 

NEWBOLT,  HENRY  JOHN 

Born  at  Bilston,   England,  June  6, 

1862,  and  now  living  in  London. 

Craven 431 

Drake's  Drum 3^7 

He  Fell  Among  Thieves 435 

NOYES,  ALFRED 

Born  in  Staffordshire,  England, 
September  16,  1880,  and  now  living  ai 
Rottingdean,  Sussex. 

A  Song  of  Sherwood 173 


O'KEEFE,  ADELAIDE 

An   English  writer,   born   in   1776; 
died  about  1855. 

The  Butterfly 65 


PARSONS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM 

Born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  August  18, 
i8ig;  died  there  in  1892. 

Obituary 267 

PERRY,  NORA 

Born  at  Dudley,  Mass.,  in  1832; 
died  there  in  1896. 

The  Coming  of  Spring.  .  . . » .   214 

PIERPONT,  JOHN 

Born  at  Litchfield,  Conn.,  April  6, 
1785;  died  at  Medjord,  Mass.,  August 
27,  1866. 

Warren's  Address  at  Bunker 
Hill 401 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN 

Born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  January  19, 
1809;  died  at  Baltimore,  Md.,  October 
7,  1849. 

Annabel  Lee 497 

POPE,  ALEXANDER 

Born  in  London,  England,  May  21, 
1688;  died  at  Twickenham,  England, 
May  30,  1744. 

Ode  on  Solitude 481 

POULSSON,  ANNE  EMII.IK 

Born  at  Cedar  Grove,  N .  J .,  Septem- 
ber 8,  1853;  and  now  living  at  Hopkin- 
ton,  Mass. 

Baby's  Breakfast 28 

Bed-time  Song 43 

Breakfast  Song,  The 28 

Lovable  Child,  The 76 

PRATT,  ANNA  MARIA 

Born  at  Chelsea,  .Mass.,  and  later  a 
resident  of  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

A  Mortifying  Mistake 97 

PROCTER,    BKY\N    WALLER    [BARRY 
CORNWALL] 

Horn  in  London,  England,  November 
J/,  17X7;  died  there,  October  ./,  1874. 
The  Sea 295 


Ovn  1 1  R  COUCH,        [SIR]        ARTHUR 

THOMAS 
Born  in  Cornwall,  England,  Notem- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


519 


ber  21,  1863,  and  now  living  at  Cam- 
bridge, England. 

Sage  Counsel 151 

The  Splendid  Spur 465 


RANDS,  WILLIAM  BRICIITY 

Born  in  London,  England,  December 

24,  182  3;  died  tit  I-'.ast  Dvlwick,  Surrev, 

England,  April  j.?.  iSSj. 

Peddler's  Caravan,  The 94 

Wonderful  World,  The 206 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN 

Born  in  Chester  County,  Pa., 
March  12,  1822;  died  in  New  York 
City,  May  n,  1872. 

Sheridan's  Ride 309 

RICHARDS,  LAURA  ELIZABETH 

Born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  February  27, 
1850,  and  now  living  at  Gardiner,  Me. 

Difference,  The 31 

In  Foreign  Parts 147 

Nursery  Song,  A 77 

"Owl,  the  Eel,  and  the  Warm- 

ing-Pan,  The" 148 

Prince  Tatters 101 

RILEY,  JAMES  \VHITCOMB 

Born   at  Greenfield,   Ind.,   in   1852, 

and  now  living  at  Indianapolis. 

Boy's  Mother,  A no 

Extremes 109 

Little  Orphant  Annie 108 

Man  in  the  Moon,  The 104 

Our  Hired  Girl 106 

Raggedy  Man,  The.  .7 103 

When   the   Frost   is   on   the 

Punkin 235 

ROBERTS,  CHARLES  GEORGE  DOUGLAS 
Born   at  Douglas,   New  Brunswick, 
January  10,  1860,  and  now  living  in 
New  York  City. 

When  the  Sleepy  Man  Comes.     46 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA 

Born  in  London,  England,  December 
5,  1830;  died  December  2Q,  1894. 
"Before    the    Paling   of    the 

Stars" 189 

City  Mouse  and  the  Garden 

Mouse,  The 17 

Holy  Innocents 46 

"  Who  Has  Seen  the  Wind  "..   247 


ruary  22,    /•V.f.V;   died  at   Glen    Ridge, 
N.  J.,  June  4,  1912. 

The  Building  of  the  Nest ....    278 

SCOTT,  [SIR]  WALTER 

Born  at  l-'.dinburgh,  Scotland,  August 
15,  1771;  died  at  Abbolsford,  near 
Melrose,  Scotland,  September  .?/,  1832. 

Alice  Brand 166 

"Breathes  There  a  Man".  .  .   380 
"Soldier,  Rest!  Thy  Warfare 

O'er" 439 

Young  Lochinvar 326 

SEARS,  EDMUND  HAMILTON 

Born  at  Sandis field,  Mass.,  in  1810; 
died  at  Weston,  Mass.,  January  14, 
1876. 

Christmas  Carols 186 

SETOUN,  GABRIEL    [THOMAS    NICOLL 

HEPBURN] 
Born    at    West    Wcmyss,    Fifes  hire, 

Scotland,  April  21,  1861;  now  living  at 

Edinburgh. 

Jack  Frost 234 

The  Wind's  Song 246 

The  World's.  Music 207 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM 

Born  at  Stratford- on- A  von,  Warwick- 
shire, England,  in  April,  1564;  died 
there  AprU  23,  1616. 

"Blow,   Blow,  Thou  Winter 

Wind" 477 

Fairy  Songs 159 

"Jog  on,  Jog  on" 80 

"Under  the  Greenwood  Tree"  477 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE 

Born  in  Sussex,  England,  August  4, 

1792;  drowned  in  the  Bay  /of  Spezia, 

Italy,  July  8,  1822. 

Dirge  for  the  Year 237 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt 494 

To  a  Skylark 288 

To  Night 239 

SHORTER,  DORA  SIGERSON 

Born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  and,  now 
living  in  London. 

The  Piper  on  the  Hill 244 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND 

Born  at  Windsor,  Conn.,  April  29, 
1841;  died  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  Febru- 
ary 27,  1887. 

A  Baker's  Duzzen  uv  Wize 
Sawz 79 


SANGSTER,  MARGARET  ELIZABETH 
Born  at  New  Rochdle,  N.  Y.,  Feb- 


SMITH,  SAMUEL  FRANCIS 

Born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  October  21, 


520 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


1808;  died  at  Newton  Center,  Mass.,  in 

1895- 

America 381 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT 

Born  at  Bristol,  England,  A  ugust  12, 
1774;  died  at  Greta  Hall,  near  Kcsicick, 
England,  March  21,  1843. 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The.  ...   321 
God's  Judgment  on  a  Wicked 

Bishop 358 

Inchcape  Rock,  The 330 

STEAD,  WILLIAM  FORCE 

An  American  writer  now  living  in 
England. 

Sweet  Wild  April 220 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE 

Born  at  Hartford,  Conn.,  October  8, 

1833;  died  in  Neiv  York  City  in  1908. 

Kearny  at  Seven  Pines 411 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis 

Born  at  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  Novem- 
ber 13,  1850;  died  at  Vailima,  near 
Apia,  Samoa,  December  4,  1894. 

Celestial  Surgeon,  The 451 

Escape  at  Bedtime 40 

Foreign  Lands 91 

Gardener,  The 91 

Good  and  Bad  Children 75 

Happy  Thought 54 

Land  of  Counterpane,  The.  .  93 

Land  of  Story-books,  The. .  .  .  304 

My  Bed  is  a  Boat 40 

My  Shadow 92 

Requiem 506 

Vagabond,  The 298 

Whole  Duty  of  Children 60 

Wind,  The 247 


TABB,  JOHN  BANISTER 

Born  in  Virginia,  March  22,  184$; 
died  at  Ellicotl  City,  Md.,  in  1909. 

Foot  Soldiers 32 

TATE,  NAHUM 

Born   at  Dublin.    Ireland,   in   1652; 
died  in  London,  England,  August  12, 

I7I5- 

"While   Shepherds  Watched 
Their  I-  locks  by  Night ". .  . .   187 

TAYLOR,  ANN  [MRS.  ANN  GILBERT] 
Born  in  London,  England,  January 

30,  1782;  died  at  Nottingham,  England, 

December  20,  1866. 

Cow,  The 16 

Jane  and  Eliza 69 


Meddlesome  Matty 70 

Pin,  The 68 

Plum-Cake,  The 61 

Tumble,  The 80 

TAYLOR,  JAMES  BAYARD 

Born  at  Kenneth  Square,  Chcsler 
County,  Pa.,  January  11,  1825;  died 
in  Berlin,  Germany,  December  IQ,  1878. 

Song  of  the  Camp,  The 438 

Story  for  a  Child,  A 323 

TAYLOR,  JANE 

Born  in  London,  England,  September 
23,  ^783;  died  at  Ongar,  Essex,  Eng- 
land, April  12,  1824. 

Contented  John 

Dirty  Jim 

Good-night 44 

"I  Like  Little  Pussy" 59 

Star,  The 

Violet,  The.  . 


'« 

44 

59 

1 


TAYLOR,  JEFFREYS 

Born  at  Lavenham,  Suffolk,  England, 
October    30,    1792;   died  in   Lot\ 
October  8,  1853. 

The  Lion  and  the  Mouse. .  .  . 


TENNYSON,  ALFRED    [FIRST 

TENNYSON] 
Born  at  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  Eng- 
land, August  7,  1809;  died  at  Aldsworth 
House,  near  Haslemere,  Surrey, 
land,  October  6,  1892. 

Brook's  Song,  The 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade, 

The 

Crossing  the  Bar 

Early  Spring 

Lullaby,  "Sweet  and  Low " .  . 

Minnie  and  Winnie 

"Of  Old  Sat  Freedom  on  the 

Heights" 

Song:  The  Owl 

Throstle,  The 

"What   Does   Little    Birdie 
Say" 

THU-KKKAY.  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE 

Born    at    Calcutta,    India,    July    18, 
1811;  died  in  London,  England, 
her  -./.  r86j, 

Little  Billcc 143 

Tragic  Story,  A 142 

Tn  \\TER,  CELIA  LEIGHTON 

Horn  at  Portsmouth,  -V.  //.,  in  1835; 

died  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  A  ugust  28, 

1894. 

Little  (iustava in 

The  Sandpiper 285 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


521 


THOMPSON,  FRANCIS 

Born  at  Preston,  England,  December 
18,  1850;  died  in  London,  November  /  ,\ 

IQ07. 

A  Child's  Prayer 196 

THOREAU,  HENRY  DAVID 

Born  at  Concord,  Mass.,  July  12, 
1817;  died  there.  May  6,  1862. 

My  Prayer 466 

THORLEY,  WILFRID 

An  English  writer,  still  living. 
Buttercups 250 

TRENCH,  RICHARD  CHEVF.MX 

Born  at  Dublin,  Ireland,  September 
5,1807;  died  there,  March  28,  1886. 
Some   Murmur  When  Their 
Sky  is  Clear 86 

TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  TOWNSEND 

Born  at  Ogden,  New  York,  September 
18,  1827,  and  now  living  at  Arlington, 
Mass. 

Midsummer 223 

TURNER,  CHARLES  TENNYSON 

Born     at     Somersby,     Lincolnshire., 
England,  July  4,  180$;  died  at  Chelt- 
enham, England,  April  25,  1879. 
Letty's  Globe 113 

TURNER,  ELIZABETH 

An  English  writer  for  children,  who 

died  in  1846. 

Politeness 56 

Rebecca's  After-thought.  ...      57 

TYNAN,  KATHERINE  [MRS.  HINKSON] 
Born  at  Clondalkin,  County  Dublin, 
Ireland,   in   1861,    and  now  living  at 
Shan  kill,  near  Dublin. 

Chanticleer 293 


WATSON,  WILLIAM 

Born  at  Burley-in-Wharfedale,  York- 
shire, England,  August  2,  1858;  now 
living  in  London. 

Song,  "April,  April" 218 

WATTS,  ISAAC 

Born     at     Southampton,     England, 
July    17,    1674;   died    at     Theobalds, 
Herts,  England,  November  25,  1748. 
"How  Doth  the  Little  Busy 

Bee" 63 

Sluggard,  The 65 

WESTWOOD,  THOMAS 

Born  at  Enfield,  England,  November 
26,  1814;  died  in  Belgium,  March  13, 
1888. 

Under  My  Window 1 14 

WHITMAN,  WALT 

Born  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  N. 

Y.,   May  31,    1810;  died  at  Camden, 

N.  J.,  March  26,  1802. 

"Joy,  Shipmate,  Joy" 508 

"O  Captain!     My  Captain".  434 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 

Born  at  Haverhill,  Mass.,  December 

17,  1807;  died  at  Hampton  Falls,  N.  II., 

September  7,  1892. 

Barbara  Frietchie 311 

Barefoot  Boy,  The 115 

Pipes  at  Lucknow,  The 327 

WOLFE,  CHARLES 

Born  at  Blackhall,  County  Kildare, 
Ireland,  December  14,  17 QI;  died,  at 
the  Cove  of  Cork,  Ireland,  February  21, 
1823. 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 
after  Corunna 404 

WOODS,  MARGARET  L. 

Born  at  Rugby,  England,  in  1856, 
and  now  living  in  London. 

Young  Windebank 436 


VAN  DYKE,  HENRY 

Born  at  Germantown,  Pa.,  Novem- 
ber 10,  1852,  and  now  living  at  The 
Hague,  Holland. 

Four  Things 451 


W 


WARD,  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS 

Born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  August  31, 
1844;  died  there,  January  28,  ion. 
The  Lost  Colors 428 


WOOLSEY,    SARAH    CHAUNCEY,    SEE 
COOLIDGE,  SUSAN 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM 

Born  at  Cockcrmouth,  Cumberland, 
England,  April  7,  1770:  died  at  Rydal 
Mount,  Westmoreland,  England,  April 
23,  1850. 

Alice  Fell 342 

Character  of  the  Happy  War- 
rior  421 

"1    Wandered    Lonely   as   a 
Cloud" 478 


322 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


"It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening, 

Calm  and  Free" 238 

Kitten   and    Falling   Leaves, 

The 230 

Lucy  Gray 340 

Rainbow,  The 479 

Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,  The...  120 
"She  Dwelt  Among  the  Un- 
trodden Ways" 495 

Stanzas  from  "Ode  to  Duty"  474 

"Three  Years  She  Grew  "...  495 

To  a  Child 87 

To  a  Skylark 286 


To  the  Daisy 251 

"  We  are  Seven" 337 

"World  is  too  Much   With 

Us,  The" 479 

Written  in  March.  .  .   218 


WOTTON,  [SIR]  HENRY 

Born  at  Boston,  Kent,  England,  in 
1568;  died  at  Eton,  England,  in  Decem- 
ber, 1630. 

The  Character  of  a  Happy 
Life 483 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A 

PAGE 

A  certain  Pasha,  dead  five  thousand  years 494 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound 332 

A  child  should  always  say  what's  true 60 

A  dillar,  a  dollar,  a  ten  o'clock  scholar 4 

A  farmer  went  trotting  upon  his  gray  mare n 

A  flock  of  merry  singing-birds  were  sporting  in  the  grove 282 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies 506 

A  lion  with  the  heat  oppressed 83 

A  little  boy  once  played  so  loud 109 

A  little  boy  was  set  to  keep 73 

A  little  fairy  comes  at  night 160 

A  little  Saint  best  fits  a  little  Shrine 81 

A  man  of  words  and  not  of  deeds 55 

A  pretty  good  firm  is  "Watch  &  VVaite" 79 

A  Python  I  should  not  advise 150 

A  silly  young  cricket,  accustomed  to  sing 64 

A  simple  child 337 

A  sunshiny  shower 38 

A  traveler  on  a  dusty  road 467 

A  was  an  Archer,  who  shot  at  a  frog 33 

A  watch  will  tell  the  time  of  day 94 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 294 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 445 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit 285 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June 224 

"And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary  " 1 70 

Anger  in  its  time  and  place 78 

April,  April 218 

Around  this  lovely  valley  rise 223 

As  a  friend  to  the  children,  commend  me  the  Yak 150 

As  I  was  going  to  St.  I ves 37 

As  I  went  through  a  garden  gap 37 

As  Joseph  was  a-waukin' 184 

As  soft  as  silk,  as  white  as  milk 35 

As  Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessy  Brooks 8 

At  evening  when  the  lamp  is  lit 304 

At  five  o'clock  he  milks  the  cow 28 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears 120 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time 442 

Augustus  was  a  chubby  lad 62 

Auld  Daddy  Darkness  creeps  frae  his  hole 48 

Away,  away  in  the  Northland 448 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down 407 

B 

Baa,  baa,  black  sheep 7 

Baby  wants  his  breakfast 28 

Barber,  barber,  shave  a  pig .. 6 

Bartholomew  is  very  sweet 27 

Be  kind  and  tender  to  the  Frog 149 

Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not 44° 

Before  the  paling  of  the  stars 189 

523 


524 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores 432 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 121 

Bird  of  the  wilderness 287 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man 115 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 477 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 380 

Brow  bender 29 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee 270 

Buttercups  and  daisies 85 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood 387 

Bye,  baby  bunting 42 

C 

Canary-birds  feed  on  sugar  and  seed 153 

Children,  you  are  very  little 75 

Cock  crows  in  the  morning  to  tell  us  to  rise 56 

Come  cuddle  close  in  daddy's  coat 175 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree 263 

Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free 354 

Come  when  you're  called 55 

D 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way 254 

" Dear  me!  what  signifies  a  pin " 68 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say?    The  Sparrow,  the  Dove 278 

Do  you  fear  the  force  of  the  wind 464 

Down  in  a  green  and  shady  bed 82 

Down  the  bright  stream  the  fairies  float 177 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away 397 

E 

Eight  fingers 31 

E^abeth  her  frock  has  torn 72 

Elizabeth,  Lizzy,  Betsy  and  Bess .' 36 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky 286 

Evening  red  and  morning  gray 39 

Every  evening  Baby  goes 42 

F 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 250 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 393 

Farewell,  rewards  and  fairies 180 

Farragut,  Farragut 412 

Father  calls  me  William,  sister  calls  me  Will 198 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat 507 

Finding  Francesca  full  of  tears,  I  said 267 

First  came  the  primrose 249 

Flour  of  England,  fruit  of  Spain 35 

For  every  evil  under  the  sun 55 

Formed  long  ago,  yet  made  today 36 

Four  things  a  man  must  learn  to  do 45i 

Friday  night's  dream  on  a  Saturday  told .vs 

Frisky  as  a  lambkin 76 

From  the  elm-tree's  topmost  bough 217 

Frowning,  the  mountain  stronghold  stood 428 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  525 

G 

PAGE 

Gay  little  Dandelion 253 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love 298 

"  Give  us  a  song! "  the  soldiers  cried 438 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old 417 

God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen 190 

( Jood  by,  good-hy  to  Summer 231 

Good  King  Wenceslas  looked  out 472 

Good  little  boys  should  never  say 56 

" Good  morrow,  my  lord! "  in  the  sky  above 452 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort 139 

Goosey,  goosey,  gander 7 

Grasshopper  (ireru  is  a  comical  chap 275 

Great  God,  I  ask  thee  for  no  meaner  pelf 466 

Great,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  World 206 

H 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit 288 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 408 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick 361 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be 275 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 481 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun 464 

Hats  off 388 

Have  ye  left  the  greenwood  lone 179 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Sugar-Plum  Tree 50 

He  came  all  so  still 185 

He  comes  in  the  night 201 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well 482 

He  that  is  down  needs  fear  no  fall 481 

He  that  would  thrive  must  rise  at  five 56 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Buffalo 138 

He  who  plants  a  tree 261 

Head  the  ship  for  England 296 

Hearts  good  and  true 87 

Hearts,  like  doors,  will  ope  with  ease 55 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound 493 

Hector  Protector  was  dressed  all  in  green 7 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 258 

Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue 266 

Here  sits  the  Lord  Mayor 30 

Hey,  diddle,  diddle 5 

Hickory,  dickory,  dock 3 

Higgleby,  piggleby,  my  black  hen 4 

High  in  the  pine-tree 13 

How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 63 

How  good  to  lie  a  little  while 209 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 483 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 42o 

Humpty  Dumpty  sat  on  a  wall 37 

Hush-a-bye,  baby,  on  the  tree-top 42 

I 

I  ain't  af  card  uv  snakes,  or  toads,  or  bugs,  or  worms,  or  mice 101 

am  fevered  with  the  sunset 297 

come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 210 

had  a  little  Doggy  that  used  to  sit  and  beg 13 

had  a  little  husband 8 

have  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out  with  me 92 

"I  have  no  name" 25 

I  heard  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 197 


526  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  night 238 

jabbed  a  jack-knife  in  my  thumb 1 1 1 

know  a  funny  little  man 96 

like  little  Pussy 59 

love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice 272 

met  a  little  Elf-man,  once 162 

met  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 494 

must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky 298 

must  not  throw  upon  the  floor 61 

I  never  can  do  it,"  the  little  kite  said 463 

never  Saw  a  Purple  Cow 154 

saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high 247 

shot  an  arrow  into  the  air 467 

sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers viii 

spied  beside  the  garden  bed » 1 13 

sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he 318 

studied  my  tables  over  and  over 97 

think  that  I  shall  never  see 260 

wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 478 

wish  I  lived  in  a  caravan 94 

If  all  the  world  were  apple-pie 148 

If  bees  stay  at  home 39 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 451 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me 441 

If  "ifs"  and  "ands"  were  pots  and  pans 55 

I'll  tell  you  a  story 3 

I  '11  tell  you  how  the  leaves  came  down 229 

I  'm  glad  the  sky  is  painted  blue 148 

In  marble  walls  as  white  as  milk S5 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes 488 

In  summer  I  am  very  glad 209 

In  summer,  when  the  grass  is  thick,  if  mother  has  the  time 174 

Is  there,  for  honest  Poverty 445 

Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad 208 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear 186 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free 238 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 444 

It  is  not  raining  rain  for  me 221 

It  was  a  summer  evening 321 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 497 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 334 

I've  plucked  the  berry  from  the  bush 58 

J 

ack  and  Jill  went  up  the  hill 9 

ack  Sprat  could  eat  no  fat 8 

anuary  brings  the  snow 34 

og  on,  jog  on  the  foot-path  way 80 

ohn  (iilpin  was  a  citizen 370 

Johnny  shall  have  a  new  bonnet 12 

Joy,  shipmate,  joy 508 

Just  as  the  moon  was  fading  amid  her  misty  rings 202 

K 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  King,  and  loved  a  royal  sport 324 

L 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs , 409 

Like  small  <  urlnl  f t-athers,  white  and  soft 188 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  527 

PAGE 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 305 

Little  baby,  lay  your  head 44 

Little  Bo-peep  has  lost  her  sheep 14 

Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  up  your  horn 6 

Little  brown  brother,  oh!  little  brown  brother 222 

Little  chili  Iron,  never  give 57 

Little  drops  of  water 80 

Little  Gustava  sits  in  t he  sun in 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth 274 

Little  Jack  Homer 5 

Little  Jesus,  wast  Thou  shy 196 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee 17 

Little  Miss  Muffet 5 

Little  Nanny  Etticoat 36 

Little  one,  come  to  my  knee 323 

Little  Orphant  Annie's  come  to  our  house  to  stay 108 

Little  Polly  Flinders 5 

Little  Prince  Tatters  has  lost  his  cap 101 

Little  Robin  Redbreast  sat  upon  a  tree 12 

Little  White  Lily  sat  by  a  stone 257 

Long  legs,  crooked  thighs 36 

M 

Make  three-fourths  of  a  cross 35 

March  winds  and  April  showers 39 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb -, .  14 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed 279 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood 166 

Methought  I  heard  a  butterfly 66 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord 386 

Minnie  and  Winnie  slept,  in  a  shell 41 

Mr.  Finney  had  a  turnip 125 

Mistress  Mary,  quite  contrary 3 

Monday's  child  is  fair  of  face 37 

Moon,  so  round  and  yellow 16 

Much  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of  gold 476 

My  bed  is  like  a  little  boat 40 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee 381 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you 87 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 479 

My  Lady  Wind,  my  Lady  Wind 78 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild 118 

My  mother  she's  so  good  to  me no 

My  recollectest  thoughts  are  those 1 24 

N 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 330 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 404 

Not  on  the  neck  of  prince  or  hound 465 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are 398 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear 349 

Now  the  bright  morning-star,  day's  harbinger 222 

Now  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these 299 

O 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done 434 

O  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light 382 

O  say  what  is  that  thing  called  light 119 


528  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 


O  suns  and  skies  and  clouds  of  June 227 

O  sweet  wild  April  came  over  the  hills 220 

O  the  green  things  growing,  the  green  things  growing 248 

O  the  Raggedy  Man!    He  works  fer  Pa 103 

O  winds  that  blow  across  the  sea 246 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west 326 

October  gave  a  party 228 

Of  all  the  birds  from  East  to  West : 293 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights 414 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 340 

Oh,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green 256 

"Oh!  I've  got  a  plum-cake,  and  a  fine  feast  I'll  make" 61 

Oh  mother  of  a  mighty  race 385 

Oh,  Peterkin  Pout  and  Gregory  Grout 77 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 219 

Oh!  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads 176 

Oh,  where  dp  you  come  from 95 

Old  Grimes  is  dead;  that  good  old  man 140 

Old  King  Cole  was  a  merry  old  soul 7 

Old  Mother  Hubbard 21 

Old  Mother  Twitchett  had  but  one  eye 36 

On  gossamer  nights  when  the  moon  is  low 150 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety- two 313 

Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 215 

One  day,  mamma  said,  " Conrad  dear" 66 

One  honest  John  Tomkins,  a  hedger  and  ditcher 74 

One  misty,  moisty  morning ., 4 

One,  two,  buckle  my  shoe 30 

One  ugly  trick  has  often  spoiled 70 

Only  a  baby  small 25 

Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead 237 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried 402 

Our  hired  girl,  she's  'Lizabuth  Ann 106 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me 465 

Over  hill,  over  dale 159 

Over  the  turret,  shut  in  his  ironclad  tower 431 

P 

Pease-pudding  hot 5 

Peter,  Peter,  pumpkin  eater 3 

Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pickled  peppers 7 

Pipes  of  the  misty  moorlands 327 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 90 

Pussy-cat,  pussy-cat,  where  have  you  been 6 

R 

Rain  before  seven 38 

Rainbow  at  night  is  the  sailor's  delight 39 

Ride  a  cock-horse  to  Banbury  Cross 7 

Right  on  our  flank  the  crimson  sun  went  down 429 

Ring  the  bell 30 

Ring-ting!    I  wish  \  were  a  Primrose 98 

Rock-a-bye,  baby,  thy  cradle  is  green 42 

Rub-a-dub-dub 3 

S 

Said  The  Raggedy  Man.  on  a  hot  afternoon 104 

Said  the  Table  to  the  Chair 132 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  529 

PAGE 

Said  the  \Vind  to  the  Moon,  "I  will  blow  you  out" 242 

Said  this  little  fairy 31 

Saw  you  never  in  the  twilight 194 

Say  not,  the  struggle  naught  availeth 486 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness 226 

See  a  pin  and  pick  it  up 37 

Sir.  Children,  the  Fur-bear-ing  Seal 149 

Seldom  "Can't " 55 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 495 

Sherwood  in  the  twilight,  is  Robin  Hood  awake 173 

Simple  Simon  met  a  pieman 10 

Sing  a  song  of  sixpence o 

Six  little  mice  sat  down  to  spin 8 

Sleep,  little  Baby,  sleep 46 

Sleep,  my  baby,  while  I  sing 43 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright 45 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts 87 

Sneeze  on  a  Monday,  you  sneeze  for  danger 38 

So  here  hath  been  dawning 456 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust 86 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey 411 

Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er 439 

Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear 86 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 423 

"  Speak !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest" 344 

Stand!  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves, 401 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God 474 

"Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming" 291 

Sunset  and  evening  star 505 

Suppose  the  little  Cowslip 82 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low 45 

Sweet  Robin,  I  have  heard  them  say 285 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave 239 

T 

Take  your  meals,  my  little  man 60 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers 460 

Thank  you,  pretty  cow,  that  made 16 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo, 230 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 426 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 425 

The  butterfly,  an  idle  thing 65 

The  Christ-child  lay  on  Mary's  lap 182 

The  aty  mouse  lives  in  a  house 17 

The  cock  is  crowing 218 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 498 

The  door  was  shut,  as  doors  should  be 234 

The  Frost  looked  forth,  one  still  clear  night 232 

The  gardener  does  not  love  to  talk 91 

The  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 146 

The  grass  so  little  has  to  do 250 

The  high  and  mighty  lord  of  Glendare 453 

The  lights  from  the  parlor  and  kitchen  shone  out 40 

The  Lion  is  the  beast  to  fight 151 

The  maid  who,  on  the  first  of  May 38 

The  man  of  life  upright 484 

The  night  was  thick  and  hazy 144 

The  owl  and  the  eel  and  the  warming-pan 148 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-cat  went  to  sea 130 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 131 


530  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career 342 

The  Queen  of  Hearts 9 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands 461 

The  robin  and  the  red-breast _ 58 

The  rosy  clouds  float  overhead 4Q 

The  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea 295 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 458 

The  South  wind  brings  wet  weather 38 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high 480 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet 358 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west 240 

The  sun  was  shining  on  the  sea 135 

The  tree's  early  leaf-buds  were  bursting  their  brown 261 

The  white  goat  Amaryllis 163 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things 54 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon 479 

The  world's  a  very  happy  place 207 

The  year's  at  the  spring 213 

Them  ez  wants,  must  choose 79 

There  are  hermit  souls  that  live  withdrawn 447 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth 470 

There  hath  come  an  host  to  see  Thee 195 

There  is  a  bird,  who  by  his  coat 283 

There  lived  a  sage  in  days  of  yore 142 

There  must  be  fairy  miners 250 

There  sits  a  piper  on  the  hill 244 

There  was  a  crooked  man 6 

There  was  a  girl  in  our  town 35 

There  was  a  little  girl,  who  had  a  little  curl 76 

There  was  a  little  man 4 

There  was  a  man  of  our  town 6 

There  was  a  monkey  climbed  up  a  tree 125 

There  was  a  snake  that  dwelt  in  Skye 152 

There  was  an  old  woman  lived  under  a  hill 4 

There  was  an  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  shoe 4 

There  was  one  little  Jim 67 

There  were  three  jovial  Welshmen 126 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 143 

There  were  two  blackbirds  sitting  on  a  hill 6 

There  were  two  little  girls,  neither  handsome  nor  plain 69 

There's  a  merry  brown  thrush  sitting  up  in  the  tree 292 

There's  a  plump  little  chap  in  a  speckled  coat 279 

There's  a  song  in  the  air 183 

There's  something  in  the  air 214 

They  shot  young  \\  link-bank  just  here 436 

They  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve  they  did 128 

They'll  come  again  to  the  apple-tree 

Thirty  days  has  September 34 

Thirty  white  horses  upon  a  red  hill 36 

This  is  the  house  that  Jack  built 10 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign .400 

This  is  the  Yuk,  so  neg-Ii-gee 

This  little  pig  went  to  market 

Thomas  a  Tattamus  took  two  T's 

Thou  must  be  true  thyself 485 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness 

Thou,  top,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State 4'<> 

Three  Kings  came  riding  from  far  away 192 

Three  wise  men  of  Gotham 4 

'I'hn-c  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 495 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright 268 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  531 

PAGE 

Tip  all  the  way  to  Toe-town 32 

Tis  bedtime:  say  your  hymn,  and  hid  "Good-night" 39 

Tis  the  voice  of  a  sluggard;  I  heard  him  complain 65 

To  grass,  or  leaf,  or  fruit,  or  wall 269 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 502 

To  market,  to  market,  to  buy  a  fat  pig 8 

Tommy's  tears  and  Mary's  fears ._ 55 

Tumble  down,  tumble  up,  never  mind  it,  my  sweet 80 

"J'uas  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the  house 203 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star 15 

Two  legs  sat  upon  three  legs 37 

Two  little  girls  are  better  than  one 32 

U 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 456 

Under  a  toadstool  crept  a  wee  Elf 162 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window 114 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 477 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 506 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn 311 

Up  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day 309 

Up  into  the  cherry  tree QI 

Up  the  airy  mountain 157 

W 

We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand 469 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin 469 

We  wish  to  declare  how  the  birds  of  the  air 277 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie 486 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town 47 

What  constitutes  a  State 415 

What  do  we  plant  when  we  plant  the  tree 263 

What  does  little  birdie  say 41 

What  have  I  done  for  you 390 

What  of  the  bow 392 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come 284 

When  clouds  appear  like  rocks  and  towers 39 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height 383 

When  good  King  Arthur  ruled  this  land i  r 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 485 

When  I  lived  in  Singapore 147 

When  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed 93 

When  in  the  woods  I  wander  all  alone 260 

When  Letty  had  scarce  passed  her  third  glad  year 113 

When  little  Fred 56 

When  Mother  takes  the  Fairy  Book 156 

When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the  shock 235 

When  the  herds  were  watching 183 

When  the  Sleepy  man  comes  with  the  dust  on  his  eyes 46 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green 115 

Whenever  a  snow-flake  leaves  the  sky 236 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear 26 

Where  do  you  come  from,  Mr.  Jay 26 

Where  do  you  think  the  fairies  go 164 

Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland 416 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  1 159 

Where  the  pooh  are  bright  and  deep 212 

WThich  is  the  way  to  Baby-land 2 

While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night 187 


532 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew 4Qi 

Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 473 

Who  has  seen  the  wind 247 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?  Who  is  he 421 

Who  killed  Cock  Robin 23 

"Will  you  take  a  walk  with  me" 18 

"Will  you  walk  a  little  faster?  "  said  a  whiting  to  a  snail 134 

"Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor?"  said  the  Spider  to  the  My 99 

With  lifted  feet,  hands  still 212 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 251 

With  wild  surprise 200 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 51 

Y 

"Ye  have  robbed,"  said  he,  "ye  have  slaughtered  and  made  an  end" 435 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 389 

Yesterday,  Rebecca  Mason 57 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon 405 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Abou  Ben  Adhem.  .  .  .Leigh  Hunt  .)  15 
Adoration  of  the  Wise  Men,  The 

C'.ril  Alexander  iQ.f 

Agincourt Michael    Drayton  303 

Alice  Brand Walter  Scott  166 

Alice  Fell.  ..  William    Wordsworth  342 

America S.  F.  Smith  381 

American  Flag,  The.  ./.  R.  Drake  383 
Anger.  .Charles  and  Mary   Lamb     78 

Annabel  Lee E.  A.  Poe  497 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question 

5.  T.  Coleridge  278 
Ant  and  the  Cricket,  The 

Unknown     64 

April  Rain Robert  Loveman  221 

Argument  of  This  Book,  The 

Robert  Hcrrick  viii 
Arrow  and  the  Song,  The 

H.  W.  Longfellow  467 
Auld  Daddy  Darkness 

James  Ferguson     48 


Boy  and  the  Wolf,  The  PAGE 

/.  //.  Frcrc     73 

Boy's  Mother,  A /.  W.  Rilcy  no 

Boy's  Song,  A James  Hogg  212 

Breakfast  Song,  The 

Emilie  Pauls  son     28 
"Breathes  There  a  Man  " 

Walter  Scott  380 
Brook's  Song,  The 

Alfred  Tennyson  210        / 
Brown  Thrush,  The .  Lucy  Larcom  292    \/ 
Building  of  the  Nest,  The 

Margaret  Sangster  278 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  after 
Corunna,  The .  . .  Charles    Wolfe  404 

Buttercups Wilfrid   Thorlcy  250 

Buttercups  and  Daisies 

Mary  Howitt     85 

Butterfly,  The.  .Adelaide  O'Keefe     65 
Butterfly  and  the  Bee,  The 

William  Lisle  Bowles     66 


B 


Babes  in  the  Wood,  The 

Unknown  349 

Baby George  Macdonald  26 

Baby  at  Play Unknown  29 

Baby-Land George  Cooper  2 

Baby  Seed  Song Edith  Nesbit  222 

Baby's  Breakfast. Emilie  Poulsson  28 
Baker's  Duzzen  uv  Wize  Sawz 

E.  R.  Sill  79 
Ballad  of  Heroes,  A 

Austin  Dobson  440 

Barbara  Frietchie.  ./.  G.  Whittier  311 

Barefoot  Boy,  The.  ./.  G.  Whittier  115 

Bartholomew Norman  Gale  27 

Battle-hymn  of  the  Republic 

Julia  Ward  Howe  386 
Battle  of  Blenheim,  The 

Robert  Southey  321 

Bedtime.  .F.  R.  St.  Clair  Erskine  39 

Bed-time  Song .  . .  Emilie  Poulsson  43 
"Before  the  Paling  of  the  Stars" 

Christina  Rossetti  189 

Best  Firm,  The.  .Walter  G.  Doty  79 

Blind  Boy,  The Colley  Cibber  119 

"Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind " 

William  Shakespeare  477 

Bob  White George  Cooper  279 


Captain's  Daughter,  The 

/.  T.  Fields  469 

Carol William  Canton  \  83 

Carol,  A Unknown  185 

Casabianca. .  .Felicia  D.  Hemans  426 
Celestial  Surgeon,  The 

R.  L.  Stevenson  451 
Chambered  Nautilus,  The 

O.  W.  Holmes  490 
Chanted  Calendar,  A 

Sydney  D obdl  249 

Chanticleer Katherine  Tynan  293 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life,  The 

Henry  Wotton  483 
Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 

William  Wordsworth  421 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  The 

Alfred  Tennyson  408 
Children's  Hour,  The 

//.  W.  Longfellow  121 
Child's  Natural  History 

Oliver  Hcrford  149 
Child's  Prayer,  A 

Francis  Thompson  196 
Christmas  Bells.//.  W.  Longfellow  197 

Christmas  Carol    Unknown  184 

Christmas  Carol,  A 

G.  K.  Chesterton  182 
Christmas  Carol,  A./.  G.  Holland  183 


533 


534 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Christmas  Carols E.  H.  Sears  186 

Christmas  Tree  in  the  Nursery, 

The R.  W.  Gilder  200 

City     Mouse    and    the    Garden 

Mouse,  The.  .Christina  Rossetti     17 

Clocking  Hen,  The Unknown     18 

Columbus Joaquin  Miller  432 

Coming  of  Spring,  The  .  Nora  Perry  214 
Concord  Hymn.  .R.   W.  Emerson  387 

Contented  John Jane  Taylor     74 

Cow,  The Ann  Taylor     16 

Cradle  Song William   Blake    45 

Craven Henry    Ncwbolt  431 

Cricket,  The William  Cowper  274 

Cricket's  Story,  The 

Emma  H.  Nason  453 
Crossing  the  Ear  .Alfred  Tennyson  505 
Crust  of  Bread,  The. . . .  Unknown  61 

D 

Daffodils,  The 

William  Wordsworth  478 
Days  of  the  Month ....  Unknown  34 
Death  and  Burial  of  Cock  Robin, 

The Unknown     23 

Deeds  of  Kindness Unknown     82 

Difference,  The 

Laura  E.  Richards    31 
Dirge  for  the  Year.  .P.  B.  Shelley  237 

Dirty  Jim Jane  Taylor     67 

Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin, 

The William  Cow  per  370 

Do  You  Fear  the  Wind 

Hamlin  Garland  464 
Drake's  Drum.  . .  .Henry  Neivbolt  397 

Duel,  The Eugene  Field  146 

Duty R.  W.  Emerson     86 


Early  Spring.  .  .  .Alfred  Tennyson  215 
Effect  of  Example,  The 

John  Keble  469 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad-dog, 

An Oliver  Goldsmith  i,}<) 

Elegy    Written     in    a    Country 

Churchyard Thomas    Gray  498 

Elf  and  the  Dormouse,  The 

Olrn-r  Hcrford  162 
"England,  My  England" 

W.  E.  Henley  390 
Epilogue  from  "Asolando" 

Robert  Browning  442 
Epitaph  on  a  Hare 

William  Cowper  266 
Escape  at  Bedtime 

R.  L.  Stevenson     40 
Ex  Ore  Infantium 

Francis  Thompson  196 

Excelsior H.  W.  Longfellow  458 

Extremes.  .James  Whitcomb  Riley  109 


PAGE 

Fairies,  The ..  William  Allingham  157 
Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low,  The 

Alary  Hcrwitt  170 
Fairies'  Shopping,  The 

Margaret  Deland  164 
Fairy  Book,  The.Abbie  F.  Brown  156 
Fairy  Book,  The.  .  .  .Norman  Gale  174 

\jttry  Folk,  The Robert  Bird  175 

Fairy    Song Felicia  Hemans  179 

Fairy  Songs .  William  Shakespeare  159 
Fairy  Thrall,  The 

Mary  C.  G.  Byron  159 

Farewell,  A Charles  Kingsley    87 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies 

Richard  Corbet  180 
"Farmer  Went  Trotting,  A" 

Unknown     1 1 

Farragut W.  T.  Meredith  412 

Fastidious  Serpent,  The 

Henry  Johnstone  152 

Fatherland,  The /.  R.  Lowell  416 

Five  Little  Fairies,  The 

Maud  Burnham     31 
Flag  Goes  By,  The.//.  //.  Bennett  388 

Foot  Soldiers John  B.  Tabb    32 

"For  a'  That  and  a'  That" 

Robert  Burns  445 

Forbearance R.  IV.  Emerson  464 

Foreign  Lands.  .  .R.  L.  Stevenson     91 
Four  Things.  .  .  .Henry  Van  Dyke  451 

Friends 1  bbic  F.  Brown  209 

Frog,  The Hilaire  Belloc  149 

Frost,  The Hannah  F.  Gould  232 


Garden  Year,  The. Sara  Coleridge  34 
Gardener,  The.  .  .  .R.  L.  Stevenson  91 
Gladness  of  Nature,  The 

W.  C.  Bryant  208 
Glove  and  the  Lions,  The 

/.'•;\'/j  Hunt  324 

"God  Rest  You,  Merry  Gentle- 
men " Unknown  100 

Go-l's    Judgment    on    a    Wicked 

Bishop Robert    Southey  358 

Going  Down  Hill  on  a  Bicycle 

H.  C.  Beeching  212 
Good  and  Bad  Children 

R.  L.  Stevenson     75 
Good  King  Arthur L'nknown     u 

Good  King  Wencedas./o&M  AV,//  472 

Good-night Jane  Taylor  44 

Gradatim /.  G.  Holland  403 

Grass,  The Emily  Dickinson  259 

( '.rasshoppcr,  The 

Abraham  Cowley  275 
Grasshopper  Green  ...  Unknown  275 
Green  Things  Growing 

Dinah  M.  Craik  248 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


535 


H 

PAGE 

Happiest  Heart,  The./.  V.  Cheney  47.? 
l*t!Tppy  Thought. .  .R.  L.  Stevenson     54 
Happy  Warrior,  The 

William  Wordsworth  421 
He  Fell  Among  Thieves 

Henry  Xacbolt  435 
"He   Liveth   Long   Who    Liveth 

Well" Horatius  Bonar  482 

"He  Thought  He  Saw" 

Lewis  Carroll  138 

Heritage,  The J.  R.  Lowell  461 

Herve  Riel Robert    Browning  313 

Holy  Innocents.CY//7.v//«<i  Rossetti     46 
Home-Thoughts  from  Abroad 

Robert  Browning  219 
Homeward  Bound 

William  Allingham  296 

Honesty Horatius    Bonar  485 

House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road, 

The 5.  W.  Foss  447 

House  that  Jack  Built,  The 

Unknown     19 
"How  Doth  the  Little  Busy  Bee" 

Isaac  Watts     63 
"How  Sleep  the  Brave" 

William  Collins  420 
How  the  Leaves  Came  Down 

Susan  Coolidge  229 
How  the  Little  Kite  Learned  to 

Fly Unknown  463 

"How  They   Brought  the  Good 
News  from  Ghent  to  Aix" 

Robert  Browning  318 
Humble-Bee,  The../?.  W.  Emerson  270 

Hush-a-Byes    Unknown     42 

Hymn  to  Creation 

Joseph  Addison  480 
Hymn  to  the  Night 

//.  W.  Longfellow  238 


"I  Had  a  Little  Doggy  "Unknown     13 
"I  Had  a  Little  Husband" 

Unknown      8 
"I  Like  Little  Pussy" 

Jane  Taylor     59 
"I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud" 

William  Wordsworth  478 

If   Unknown  148 

"If  I  Should  Die". Rupert  Brooke  441 

I'm  Glad     Unknown  148 

In  Foreign  Parts 

Laura  E.  Richards  147 

In  the  Garden Ernest  Crosby  113 

Inchcape  Rock,  The 

Robert  Southey  330 
Incident  of  the  French  Camp 

Robert  Browning  405 


Infant  Joy William  Blake.     25 

Integer  Vitac.  .  . .  Thomas  Campion  484 

Invictus W.  E.  Henley  465 

"It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm 
and  Free  " .  William  Wordsworth  238 

Ivry T.  B.  Macaulay  398 

Ivy  Green,  The.  .Charles  Dickens  256 


Jack  Frost Gabriel  Setoun  234 

Jack  and  Jill Unknown      9 

Jackdaw,  The William  Cowper  283 

Jane  and  Eliza Ann  Taylor     69 

Jest  'fore  Christmas. .  Eugene  Field  198 
"Jog  on,  Jog  on" 

William  Shakespeare     80 
"Johnny  Shall  Have  a  New  Bon- 
net"     Unknown     12 

"Joy,  Shipmate,  Joy" 

Walt  Whitman  508 
Joys  of  the  Road,  The 

Bliss  Carman  299 

Jumblies,  The Edward   Lear  128 

June J.  R.  Lowell  224 


Kearny  at  Seven  Pines 

E.  C.  Stedman  411 

Kindness  to  Animals  .  .  .  Unknown     57 
Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves,  The 

William  Wordsworth  230 
Kriss  Kringle T.  B.  Aldrich  202 


Lamb,  The William  Blake     17 

Land  of  Counterpane,  The 

R.  L.  Stevenson    93 
Land  of  Story  Books,  The 

R.  L.  Stevenson  304 
Landing  of  the  Pilgrim   Fathers, 

The V  .  .Felicia  D.  Hemans  425 

Last  Voyage  of  the  Fairies,  The 

W.  H.  D.  Adams  177 
Legend  of  the  Northland,  A 

Phoebe  Cary  448 

Letty's  Globe C.  T.  Turner  113 

Life  Upright,  The 

Thomas  Campion  484 
Lion  and  the  Mouse,  The 

Jeffreys  Taylor     83 
Little  and  Great .  Charles  Mackay  467 

VLittle  Billee W.  M.  Thackeray  143 

Little  Black  Boy,  The 

William  Blake  118 

Little  Bo-Peep Unknown     14 

Little  Dandelion 

Helen  B.  Bostwick  253 


536 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Little  Elf,  The J.  K.  Bangs  162 

Little  Fred  Unknown     56 

Little  Gentleman,  The . .  Unknown     60 

Little  Gustava Celia  Thaxter  in 

Little  Orphant  Annie.  .J.  W.  Riley  108 
Little  Raindrops.^ Mrs.  Hawkshaw  95 
Little  Things.  .  .Julia  F.  Carney  80 
Little  White  Lily 

George  Macdonald  257 

Lochinvar Walter  Scott  326 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 

Thomas  Campbell  332 
Loss  of  the  Birkenhead,  The 

F.  H.  Doyle  429 

Lost  Colors,  The.  ..E.S.  P.  Ward  428 
Lovable  Child,  The 

Emilie  Poulsson     76 

Lucy William  Wordsworth  495 

Lucy  Gray ..  \\ 'illia m  Wordsworth  340 

Lullaby Alfred  Tennyson     45 

Lullaby  in  Bethlehem 

H.  II.  Bashford  195 


M 


Man  in  the  Moon,  The 

/.  W.  Riley  104 

Mary's  Lamb Unknown  14 

Meddlesome  Matty..  .Ann  Taylor  70 

Midsummer.  . . ./.  T.  Trowbridge  223 
Minnie  and  Winnie 

Alfred  Tennyson  41 

Mr.  Coggs E.  V.  Lucas  94 

Mr.  Finney's  Turnip. . .  Unknown  125 

Mr.  Nobody Unknown  96 

"Moon,  So  Round  and  Yellow" 

Matthias  Barr  16 
Mortifying  Mistake,  A 

Anna  M.  Pratt  97 
Mother  Goose's  Melodies 

Unknown  3 
My  Bed  is  a  Boat 

R.  L.  Stevenson  40 

My  Lady  Wind Unknown  78 

My  Prayer II.   D.    Thoreau  466 

My  Recollectest  Thoughts 

C.  E.  Carryl  124 

My  Shadow R.  L.  Stevenson  92 

My  Sore  Thumb .  Burgess  Johnson  1 1 1 


N 


Night William  Blake  240 

Night  Before  Christmas,  The 

C.  C.  Moore  203 

Noble  Nature,  The. . .  Ben  Jonson  444 
Nursery  Song,  A 

Laura  E.  Richards  77 

Nurse's  Song  William  Blake  115 


PAGE 

"0  Captain!    My  Captain!" 

Walt  Whitman  434 

Obituary T.W.  Parsons  267 

October's  Bright  Blue  Weather 

//.  //.  Jackson  227 

October's  Party. . .  .George  Cooper  228 
Ode  in  Imitation  of  Alcaeus,  An 

William  Jones  415 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn.  John  Keats  489 
Ode  on  Solitude. A lexander  Pope  481 
Ode  to  Duty,  Stanzas  from 

William  Wordsworth  474 
"Of   Old    Sat    Freedom    on    the 

Heights" Alfred  Tennyson  414 

"Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race" 

W.  C.  Bryant  385 
"Oh!     Where    do    Fairies    Hide 

Their  Heads" T.H.  Bayly  176 

Old  Grimes A.  G.  Greene  140 

Old  Ironsides 0.  W.  Holmes  407 

Old  Mother  Hubbard. .  Unknown     21 

Old  Superstitions Unknown    37 

O'Lincon  Family,  The 

Wilson  Flagg  282 
On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 

Homer John  Keats  476 

On  His  Blindness. .  .John  Milton  485 
One  and  One .  .  Mary  Mapcs  Dodge  32 
"Only  a  Baby  Small" 

Matthias  Barr     25 

Our  Hired  Girl J.  W.  Riley  106 

"Owl  and  the  Eel  and  the  Warm- 
ing Pan,  The" 

Laura  E.  Richards  148 
Owl  and  the  Pussy-cat,  The 

Edward  Lear  130 
Ozymandias  of  Egypt 

P.  B.  Shelley  494 


Paul  Revere's  Ride 

H.  W.  Longfellow  305 
Peddler's  Caravan,  The 

W.  B.  Rands    94 
J 'ird  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The 

Robert  Browning  361 

Pin,  The Ann    Taylor     (>S 

I'iprr  on  the  Hill,  The 

Dora  S.  Shorter  244 
Pipes  at  Lucknow,  The 

J.  G.  Whittier  327 
Plaint  of  the  Camel,  The 

C,  /•:.  Carryl  153 

Plant  a  Tree Lucy  Larcom  261 

Planting  of  the  Apple-tree 

li.C.  Bryant  263 
Playgrounds 

Laurence  Alma-Tadema  209 
Plum-Cake,  The Ann  Taylor    61 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


537 


PAGE 

Pobble  Who  Has  No  Toes,  The 

Eilicard  Lear  131 

Politeness Elizabeth  Turner     56 

I'riiu-c  Tatters 

I. aura  E.  Richards  101 
Private  of  the  Bulls,  The 

F.  II.  Doyle  400 

Pros] 'ice    Robert   Browning  507 

Psalm  of  Life,  A 

//.  If.  Longfellow  460 
Purple  Cow,  The.  .  .Gclctt  Burgess  154 
Python,  The Hilaire  Bclloc  150 


Ouecn  Mab Thomas    Hood  160 

of  Hearts,  The.  .Unknown      9 


Raggedy  Man,  The. .  ./.  W.  Riley  103 
Rainbow,  The 

William  Wordsworth  479 
Rebecca's  After-Thought 

Elizabeth  Turner    57 

Recessional Rudyard  Kipling  417 

wKeeds  of  Innocence .  William  Blake    90 

Requiem R.  L.  Stevenson  506 

Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,  The 

William  Wordii'sorth  120 
Rhodora,  The.  .  .R.    W.   Emerson  488 

Riddles   Unknown     35 

^Robert  of  Lincoln.  . .  W.  C.  Bryant  279 
Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale 

Unknown  354 
Robin  Redbreast 

William  Allingham  231 

Robin  Redbreast G.  W.  Doane  285 

Robin  Redbreast Unknown     12 

Robin's  Come W.  W.  Caldwcll  217 

Robinson  Crusoe.  .  .  .C.  E.  Carryl  144 
Rule  for  Birds'  Nesters,  A 

Unknown     58 
Rules  of  Behavior Unknown     55 


Sage  Counsel .  A .  T.  Quitter-Couch  151 
Sandman,  The 

Margaret  T.  Janvier    49 
Sandpiper,  The  .  .  .  .Celia  Thaxter  285 

Santa  Claus  Unknown  201 

"Say  Not,  the  Struggle  Naught 

Availeth" A.H.  dough  486 

Sea,  The B.  W.  Procter  205 

Sea  Fever John  Masefield  298 

Sea  Gipsy,  The. . .  .Richard  Hovey  297 

Seal,  A    Oliver  Herford  149 

Seein'  Things Eugene  Field  101 

"She  Dwelt  Among  the  Untrod- 
den Ways ". William  Wordsworth  495 


PAGE 

Shepherd  Boy  Sings,  The 

John  Bunyan  481 
Shepherd  of  King  Admetus,  The 

J.  R.  Lowell  470 

Sheridan's  Ride T.  B.  Read  309 

Ship  of  State,  The 

//.  W.  Longfellow  416 

Simple  Simon Unknown     10 

"Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence" 

Unknown       9 
"Sing  On,  Blithe  Bird" 

William  Motherwcll     58 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 

//.  W.  Longfellow  423 
Sir  Lark  and  King  Sun 

George  Macdonald  452 
Skeleton  in  Armor,  The 

II.  W.  Longfellow  344 

Skylark,  The James  Hogg  287 

Sluggard,  The Isaac  Watts    65 

Snail,  The William  Cow  per  269 

Snow-flakes  .  .Mary  Mapes  Dodge  236, 
"So  Be  My  Passing"  .  W.E.Henley  506 
"Soldier,  Rest!  Thy  Warfare 

O'er" Waller  Scott  439 

"Some  Murmur  When  Their  Sky 

is  Clear" R.  C.  Trench     86 

Song,  "April,  April" 

William  Watson  218 
Song:  On  May  Morning 

John  Milton  222 

Song,  The  Owl. .  .Alfred  Tennyson  284 
Song,  "The  Year's  at  the  Spring" 

Robert  Browning  213 
Song  of  Marion's  Men 

W.  C.  Bryant  402 

Song  of  Sherwood,  A .  A  If  red  Noyes  1 73 
Song  of  the  Bow,  The . .  A .  C.  Doyle  392 
Song  of  the  Camp,  The 

Bayard  Taylor  438 
"Spacious   Firmament   on    High, 

The" Joseph  Addison  480 

Spider  and  the  Fly,  The 

Mary  Howitt     99 
Splendid  Spur,  The 

A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  465 
Stanzas  from  "Ode  to  Duty" 

William  Wordr&orth  474 

Star,  The Jane  Taylor     15 

Star-Spangled  Banner,  The 

F.  S.  Key  382 

Story  for  a  Child,  A .  Bayard  Taylor  323 
Story  of  Augustus,  Who  Would 
Not  Have  Any  Soup,  The 

Heinrich  Hoffman     62 
Story  of  Little  Suck-a-Thumb 

Heinrich  Hoffman    66 
Strange  Lands 

Laurence  Alma-Tadma     26 
Sugar-Plum  Tree,  The 

Eugene  Field    50 


538 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Sweet  Wild  April.  ...W.F.  Stead  220 


Table  and  the  Chair,  The 

Edward  Lear  132 
Ternarie  of  Littles,  A 

Robert  Her  rick     81 

Thanatopsis W.  C.  Bryant  502 

"There  Was  a  Little  Girl" 

Unknown     76 

There  Was  a  Monkey. .  Unknown  125 
Think  Before  You  Act 

Mary  Elliot     72 
Jovial  Welshmen,  The 

Unknown  126 
Three  Kings,  The 

H.  W.  Longfellow  192 
"Three  Years  She  Grew" 

William  Wordsworth  495 
Throstle,  The.  .  .Alfred  Tennyson  291 

Tiger,  The 'William  Blake  268 

To  a  Child  . .  William  Wordsworth     87 

To  a  Mouse Robert  Burns  486 

To  a  Skylark P.  B.  Shelley  288 

To  a  Skylark 

William  Wordsworth  286 
To  a  Waterfowl.  .    .W.  C.  Bryant  491 

To  an  Insect 0.  W.  Holmes  272 

To    Autumn John    Keats  226 

To   Daffodils Robert  Her  rick  250 

To-day Thomas  Carlyle  456 

To  Night P.  B.  Shelley  239 

To  the  Daisy .  William  Wordsworth  251 
To  the  Dandelion.  .  ./.  R.  Lowell  254 
Tom  Thumb's  Alphabet. Unknown  33 
Tragic  Story,  A..W.  M.  Thackeray  142 
Trail  of  the  Bird,  The 

\V .  J.  Courthope  277 
Tree,  The.  .Bjbrnstjerne  Bjbrnson  261 

Trees Joyce  Kilmer  260 

Trot,  Trot Mary  F.  Butts    42 

Tumble,  The Ann  Taylor    80 

Turkish  Legend,  A. .  T.  B.  Aldrich  494 
urtle-Doves'  Nest,  The 

Unknown     13 
U 

Under  My  Window 

Thomas  Westwood  114 
"Under  the  Greenwood  Tree" 

William  Shakespeare  477 


Voice  of  the  Grass,  The  PAGE 

Sarah  R.  Boyle  258 

W 

Walrus  and  the  Garpenter,  The 

Lewis  Carroll  135 
Warren's  Address  at  Bunker  Hill 

John  Pier pont  401 
"We  are  Seven" 

William  Words^vorth  337 

Weather  Wisdom    Unknown     38 

"Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea, 

A" Allan  Cunningham  294 

"What  do  We  Plant " .  Henry  Abbey  263 
"What  Does  Little  Birdie  Say" 

Alfred  Tennyson     41 
"  When  in  the  Woods  I  Wander 
All  Alone" 

Edward  Hovell-Thurlow  260 
When  the  Frost  is  on  the  Punkin 

/.  jr.  Riley  235 
When  the  Sleepy  Man  Comes 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts     46 
"While  Shepherds  Watched" 

Margaret  Deland  188 
"While  Shepherds  Watched  Their 

Flocks  by  Night ".  Nahum  Tate  187 
Whiting  and  the  Snail,  The 

Lr^'is  Carroll  134 
"Who  Has  Seen  the  Wind" 

Christina  Rossetti  247 
Whole  Duty  of  Children 

R.  L.  Stevenson     60 
Wrillie  Winkie  ....  William  Miller    47 

Wind,  The R.  L.  Stevenson  247 

Wind  and  the  Moon,  The 

George  Macdonald  242 
Wind's  Song,  The.  .Gabriel  Setoun  246 

Wishing William    Allingham     98 

Wonderful  World,  The 

IT.  R.  Rands  206 
"World  is  Too  Much  With   Qs, 

The" William  Wordsworth  479 

World's  Music,  The .  Gabriel  Setoun  207 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The 

//.  \\  .  Longfellow  334 
Written  in  a  Little  Lady's  Little- 
Album F.  W.  Faber    87 

Written  in  March 

William  Wordsworth  218 
W^ynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod 

Eugene  Field    51 


Vagabond,  The.  .R.  L.  Stevenson  298 
Village  Blacksmith,  The 

//.  W.  Longfellow  456 

Violet,  The Jane  Taylor  82 

Visit  from  St.  Nicholas,  A      . 

C.  C.  Moore  203 

Visitor,  The P.  R.  Chalmers  163 


Yak,  The Hilaire  Belloc  150 

Yak,   The Oliver   Herford  149 

"Ye  Mariners  of  England" 

Thomas  Campbell  389 
Young  Lochinvar.  .  .  .Walter  Scott  326 
Young  Wmdebank 

Margaret  L.  Woods  436 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 
or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 

(415)642-6233 
1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books 

to  NRLF 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days 

prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


FEB  2  6 1989 


I  OO 


U.C.B0WWYUMJ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


